


hand study

by Ankal



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: :))), Alcohol, Angry Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Choking, Deepthroating, Drugs, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Edging, Ferns. A Lot of Them, Food Fight, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Heavy pining, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, Kinky, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Mutual Pining, Smoking, Spanking, Subspace, Twilight References, again another horror movie, also.... a lot OF FLUFF THAT BROKE MY HEART TO WRITE, and ALIENS, basically everything i'm afraid of, because she was way too fucking invested in this story, horror movie mentions (the ring), internalized homophobia of miya osamu but it's just a mention, just so you know, kiyoomi is an idiot, miya atsumu also gives a Lap Dance, miya atsumu has a Hand Kink, miya atsumu has a past of pole dancing but i didn't have the time to explore that in this fic, my first fic and i will always hold it dear to my heart, no beta we die like men, of course there is smoking it is MY fic after all, sakusa kiyoomi is a Plant Dad, the angst kicks in, the author (me) has wept for two hours straight after finishing the fic, this story broke me, this time its one about paranoia and murder, we are all one heart beating for kiyoomi as he struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 84,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ankal/pseuds/Ankal
Summary: Miya Atsumu accidentally hurts Sakusa Kiyoomi’s hand in a practice match, and he is all over the latter’s house cooking him meals, unravelling the man and feeding him with his own hands for a while. He’s doing it solely out of the burden on his conscience and for the fun of it, not because of his non–existent enormous crush on Sakusa, thank you.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou, Tendou Satori/Ushijima Wakatoshi, past atsuhina mentions - Relationship, past iwaoi mentions, pls be aware that all other ships that are not sakuatsu are MINOR and DONT YELL AT ME ABOUT IT OKAY
Comments: 332
Kudos: 1158
Collections: Behold the Sacred Texts, Inarizaki Serotonin Rush





	1. the first sip

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [Lettuce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallexi) for the hand kink prompt. One single sentence brought us here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miya Atsumu accidentally hurts Sakusa Kiyoomi’s hand in a practice match, and he is all over the latter’s house cooking him meals, unravelling the man and feeding him with his own hands for a while. He’s doing it solely out of the burden on his conscience and for the fun of it, not because of his non–existent enormous crush on Sakusa, thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw // dubcon, intoxication
> 
> our two boys get drunk together but they don’t black out! just in case, there’s a warning.
> 
> man, this is my first work to be published so I can’t say how nervous and excited I am to share this with you all. if this work has mistakes they are solely on me, and not on my wonderful betas and friends, which I thank infinitely, especially Em for guiding me into and through the SakuAtsu hell. 
> 
> there are mainly two songs used in this fic. if you want to listen to them when their cues appear, they are:  
> 1– in my mind – dynoro, gigi d’agostino (“starts with a slow vocal.”)  
> 2– show me how to live – audioslave (the metal song with riffs and drums)
> 
> also here’s my playlist I made for terminal curiosity and ended up using A LOT for hand study. it includes both of these songs. [for playlist link, click here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4wFhhOdZCTsNwXMCyHvZXb?si=hfKjz4SIRgKE1hFD%E2%80%93giNlw)
> 
> enough self promotion, let’s get to business!
> 
> EDIT 9TH DEC: So, in the last two weeks my characterization shifted and my writing style has been evolving. I wanted to change a lot of things, so there are minor and major tweaks here and there, but the general gist is the same. Just a heads up. 
> 
> This fic wouldn't be here without the endless help of Jenna and Zoé. I thank them infinitely.
> 
> Also, someone did this to me the other day and I was about to scream with happiness. If you make a twitter reaction thread of reading this fic and tag me with it, I Will Ugly Cry (my twitter linked at the end notes). Thank you for your consideration.

**Scheherazade** | Crush by **Richard Siken**

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake  
and dress them in warm clothes again.  
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running  
until they forget that they are horses.  
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,  
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,  
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days  
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple  
to slice into pieces.

Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means  
we’re inconsolable.  
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

Sakusa Kiyoomi has gorgeous hands.

Atsumu is aware of this, of course, since he is the setter and it’s his job to microanalyse every single form, jump and flex of his teammates. And he is aware of this, definitely not because he wants to kiss those hands, or not because he wants to suck on those fingertips, or not because he wants those long, graceful, pale fingers to finger him until he is begging for more.

Alright, there might have been a little bit of a problem there. But _nonetheless,_ what to make of it other than he simply admires beauty he sees in others? That just makes him someone better.

That, until he slams the ball so hard during a three on three drill and sees the strange contortion of a wince on Sakusa’s face when he is blocking the ball and coiling over his right hand afterwards.

He knows something went terribly wrong before the blockers land back onto the court. A sudden flare of anxiety seizes him, an internal compression after disaster. He bends over, stepping over the boundary of the net, and crouches next to Sakusa with panic.

“Omi–omi? Ya alright?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t raise his head to the question, only a light groan escaping his lips. Atsumu can hear the coach rushing towards them behind the ringing of his ears, the players circling them with worry. Coach Foster crouches next to Kiyoomi.

“Sakusa–san. Can I see your hand?”

Sakusa lifts his chin, and Atsumu can suddenly see that the lashes are wet, like brushstrokes on his eyelids, and is struck again by how _beautiful_ this son of a bitch is.

When his eyes focus on the hand, Atsumu swallows down a gasp. It’s not worse than their average injuries, but it looks bad enough to prevent Sakusa from playing. For a while too, Atsumu estimates. The blood is seeping from between his fingers, the skin torn at his upper palm. One drop of crimson falls onto the court, and then another.

“This doesn’t look good. Let’s get you an ice pack before the doctor arrives.” Coach rises, and makes a hand gesture that calls one of the managers around. “Get us an ice pack!”

Atsumu immediately raises his head with guilt plastered all over his face. “Coach, this is my fault. Lemme take care of it.”

Coach Foster looks at him knowingly and sighs. “Go.”

Atsumu very gently holds Sakusa by his left upper arm, and helps to lift him up. A sharp inhale follows the thought of the amount of pain Sakusa must be in to let Atsumu touch him like this.

They slowly make their way towards the locker room, Sakusa not lifting his head once. Every time Atsumu sees the slight bleeding from the corner of his eye, his ribcage threatens to collapse in on itself.

“Sit.” Atsumu softly says, guilt heavy in his voice. He receives the ice pack and the washcloth from the manager. “Thanks.”

Sakusa inhales deeply, and lets it out slowly. Atsumu can see the hand shaking and Sakusa’s frown seems to have carved its place onto his face.

“Can I take yer hand?”

Sakusa looks at him. Atsumu does his best to look kind and compassionate, but he knows the worry is clouding his expression.

Sakusa extends his hand towards him.

The blood oozing from his fingers has clotted but Sakusa’s pinky and ring fingers are red and swollen. For now. Atsumu knows from experience that they will turn purple, then green, then yellow, and will fade eventually. He still can’t believe he injured a professional volleyball player’s hand, one of his teammates’ hand, with matches starting in a month. If this happened to Atsumu’s hand, he would be furious. He fights the urge to cry.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve–”

“Miya.” Sakusa’s deep voice is collected, although a bit strained. “Injuries happen.”

He even manages to not wince when Atsumu touches his hand, holding it lightly, although he jumps when Atsumu softly presses the ice pack onto his ring finger.

“I know. Still, I feel awful ‘bout it.”

Tense silence follows his statement but Atsumu doesn't know how to apologize further.

 _Apologies speak loudest when not in words, but actions_ his Ma says in his head. He nods imperceptibly, and finds Sakusa looking at him with detached curiosity.

After a few minutes, the doctor walks in with her apprentice. She’s a cheerful looking woman with positivity surrounding her like a layer of air. She comes to a halt when she sees Sakusa and Atsumu. Atsumu immediately makes room for her, shifting to the side without letting go of Sakusa’s hand, and her helper places a first aid kit next to Sakusa.

“I am Asai Kimiko,” she introduces herself politely. “Can I see your hand? What is your name?”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Sakusa murmurs.

“Sakusa–san, can you tell me what happened?” The doctor gently holds Sakusa’s hand, and Atsumu withdraws the ice pack.

“Well, I was blocking a hard spike… there’s really not much to tell.”

“I see,” the doctor says after several seconds of silent inspection. “Well, there are no signs of bone damage, and there are no muscles in your fingers, so that also is off the table,” she continues with a smile. “But there is probably tendon damage accompanied by cutaneous laceration. We need to MRI this, and make sure there’s no further damage than dislocation, perhaps.”

She speaks rather slowly but Atsumu doesn’t understand half of it. What is cutan– what? Isn’t MRI needed only for bone breakages?

But Sakusa nods understandingly.

“And when I can return to training depends on the scan.”

“Yes,” the doctor says with another small smile. “But I don’t think we have much to worry about. This looks like a simple dislocation, and within two to three weeks, you should be fine. We’ll have the scan to make sure.”

Atsumu is pretty sure Sakusa would demand the scan if the doctor wasn’t proposing it herself.

Sakusa nods.

“We don’t have the MRI machine here, so we’ll have to use the hospital for that,” the apprentice adds helpfully. Sakusa’s nose scrunches upwards. Atsumu would fight down a smile thinking of Sakusa being in a building full of sick people, germs and whatnot, if it were not for the graveness of the situation.

“Do ya need me to come with?” he asks instead.

“It’s a very simple process,” the doctor says before Sakusa can say anything. “We’ll be back in a flash. Don’t worry.” She gives a reassuring smile.

“Mkay,” Atsumu says, not content.

Sakusa rises, takes the ice pack from Atsumu, careful to not touch him more than necessary, and they leave the room.

Atsumu sighs.

✵

When Sakusa re–emerges at the entrance of the gym, Atsumu doesn’t notice. The practice is over for the day, and they’re doing extra spikes when Hinata’s eyes dart to the side for a fleeting second and he completely misses the hit. Atsumu follows Hinata’s eyes with a frown to see a fully bandaged Sakusa at the door.

Suddenly, his nausea returns.

He practically hears Hinata’s horror–blown eyes when the redhead yells. “Sakusa–san!! Are you okay???!”

“Yes, thank you, Hinata,” Sakusa replies calmly through the mask, slowly walking towards the locker rooms. Atsumu and Hinata follow him, one exclaiming and one eerily silent.

“What happened? When will you be back at training?”

“It’s dislocation and tendon damage. I will probably be back in two or three weeks, depending on my healing progress.”

Atsumu suddenly can’t look Sakusa in the eye. _Three whole weeks_ of not practicing. He couldn’t deal with that himself. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and at the reality of the statement, the guilt he tried to ignore throughout training blows the air out of his lungs.

“Oh... So, you’ll... rest at home?” Hinata asks with genuine worry and sadness when they make it into the locker room.

“Yes, since it’s a simple accident,” Sakusa says dismissively, calmly retrieving items from his locker.

“Okay! Let me know if you need a hand,” Hinata flashes a full smile.

 _Literally, a hand._ Atsumu cringes. Why, of all places and of all people, Sakusa’s hand?

“Atsumu–san, you’re awfully quiet!” Hinata slaps him on the back. “Do you wanna grab dinner with me and Bokuto? I heard Akaashi–san is also coming to town and will join us after his business meeting!”

“No, thanks, Shoyo,” Atsumu says quietly.

“Okay! See you later!” And just like that, Hinata grabs his towel and skips off to the showers.

There is an awkward silence. Atsumu slowly lifts his eyes to meet Sakusa’s intense, perusing gaze.

“I wanna help ya,” Atsumu blurts out.

Brows raised, Sakusa calmly replies. “I don’t need help.”

“Ya drive here, right?”

“I do, yes,” says Sakusa, and a moment later understands what is implied.

“Ya can’t drive with one hand, and ya can’t carry yer bag and open the car door and do it all by yerself, so stop whining,” Atsumu says, suddenly stubborn and defiant. “And if ya worry that it’ll be a bother, it won’t be.”

Sakusa frowns. His shoulders hunch in as his brow creases, looking like he’s trying to find any reasonable excuse to not allow Atsumu’s assistance. Finally, he admits with hard reluctance. “It’s not that. It’s your hands touching my steering wheel.”

“I’ll… go ahead and wash my hands.” Atsumu says, suddenly feeling excited. “C’n ya wait for a minute? I’ll be right back.”

“I….” Sakusa says with a pause. “Okay.”

✵

And that is how Sakusa Kiyoomi finds himself in the passenger seat of his own car. After he washes his hands thoroughly, Atsumu hesitantly agrees to not shower in the public showers (“What, would ya prefer me to shower in yer house, Omi–omi?” “Yes, actually. At least I’ll be sure you’re clean”).

He doesn’t want to add more discomfort to Sakusa’s situation than there already is. Atsumu takes the duffel bags, and even leaves a free hand to be able to open doors for Sakusa, who doesn’t thank him.

“I still have one hand, Miya.”

“Ya really wanna touch a public door?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond.

✵

The drive home is silent.

To much of his surprise, Kiyoomi learns that Atsumu is a good driver, he follows the rules and is the kind person on the road that lets other cars turn the corner first. Though this doesn’t stop him from cursing under his breath at those who turn unexpectedly without any signals or swinging his fist towards someone who nearly crashes into them because they were hurrying to cross at a red light.

Atsumu acts almost like a civilized, normal person in traffic.

He follows Kiyoomi’s instructions and they finally get to the outskirts of Osaka. The neighbourhood is calm, serene and green, and a lush park stands right across Kiyoomi’s apartment building, the old trees still competing for the sun with breath–taking shades of brown and orange on their branches. Atsumu slowly brings the car to a stop in front of the car entrance. Kiyoomi clicks a remote control to lift the gate to the underground parking lot, and directs them to a spot at a corner.

Atsumu parks the car carefully. Then he retrieves all of the bags from the car, attempts to help Sakusa out, gets refused, and they are in the elevator, rising to the 9th floor.

Atsumu opens the door. He pauses in the entryway, inhaling the smell deeply - herbal with lemon, mint and sage with notes of bleach somewhere underneath them - and Kiyoomi feels weird, almost inspected.

“What are you doing?”

“Yer place smells like you, Omi–omi,” Atsumu says with a grin.

“What a shock, considering I’m living here.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply but the grin prevails. He puts the bags down inside the house, and proceeds to take off his shoes while Kiyoomi tries clumsily to use his left hand to undo the laces, which is frustrating. It makes Kiyoomi think about ditching the whole process and cutting the shoes open to get rid of them. Then Atsumu turns, completely serious, and crouches in front of Kiyoomi.

“What are you doing?” Kiyoomi asks again, voice tinted with surprise.

“Don’t wanna wait until forever for you to undo them.”

Kiyoomi glares at the bleached hair but falls silent and watches, with mild interest, how fast Atsumu’s fingers work at his shoes. Atsumu shoots him a dubious look. “What’re ya lookin’ at?”

Seeing Atsumu looking up at him, or maybe the darkening of the hue in the man’s eyes, does things to Kiyoomi’s stomach. He shoots the uncomfortable feeling down at once. “You look so domestic. Maybe a career in homemaking would suit you better.”

“What a way to treat someone who’s tryin’ to help ya,” Atsumu says snidely. “The assholery never fails.”

“Thank you.” Kiyoomi replies.

He can bet money on Atsumu rolling his eyes. The shoelaces are undone, and Kiyoomi lets Atsumu take them off and steps into his house, immediately walking towards the fridge.

“Hungry already?” Atsumu asks from behind him with mirth in his voice.

“No, Miya. I’m getting an ice pack.” Kiyoomi says, removing his mask and carefully discarding it.

“Oh.”

“And,” Kiyoomi turns around, internally squirming with the unfamiliar feeling of having an outsider in his house who is not Motoya. “Thank you for the ride. Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“I’m not goin’ home until I see you’re fed and tucked into bed,” Atsumu says with a conceited grin, and it looks like his face is not enough for the expression’s smugness itself.

Kiyoomi’s eyebrow twitches involuntarily.

Atsumu’s grin somehow deepens.

“Is there a bathroom I can finally shower in before I touch anything in yer house?”

The feeling that it’s futile to refuse his help suspends in the air Kiyoomi inhales. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

Better get it done and over with.

“Third door on your right.”

“Thanks Omi,” Atsumu says saccharinely, definitely taking pride in torturing him. Kiyoomi decides not to scream while he watches the blond man taking his bag and disappearing into the hallway.

Kiyoomi proceeds to the refrigerator, taking an ice pack and wrapping it clumsily with his left hand. He then presses the cold onto his bandages, the pain drawing his attention.

Fuck.

It takes a lot of the endurance and self control he built up while growing up with his family, where open emotions were not welcome, to not show the pain. But it _fucking_ _hurts_ , his palm and fingers tender and hypersensitive under the bandages and the relaxant on his skin. He sighs, looking up at the ceiling to wonder what he did wrong while blocking.

Nothing. This was sheer bad luck and Atsumu’s unnecessary need to give everything he does his 110%.

He hears the shower start in the guest bathroom. With another sigh, he contemplates going to his own bathroom to shower with his single hand, trying to not wetten the bandages. If that’s even possible.

He could just not take the shower, but the sole thought of it makes his skin crawl. Kiyoomi sighs again, padding his way to his ensuite to see how difficult this will actually be, his introversion asking for some space so he can be miserable fully on his own. Here come a couple of frustrating weeks.

✵

When he reemerges, there are noises coming from the kitchen. The fridge door is shut, followed with the clanks of bowls and the rustling of packages. Kiyoomi slowly walks towards the kitchen’s soft yellow light, and turns the corner to find quite the domestic view.

Atsumu is in an apron, the black one, and he’s wearing soft, long sweatpants with a tank top. He opens the pack of tofu and puts it into a pan he’s buttered. With confident, assured motions he proceeds cutting up the broccoli, cauliflower, and peppers to put them into vinegar water, judging from the bottle next to the big bowl.

Kiyoomi silently watches from under the doorframe. As Atsumu curses and turns around to find something he forgot, their eyes meet, one end fond and the other mildly intrigued.

“Oh, Omi–omi! ‘m cookin’ for us.”

“Apparently I was accurate in my suggestion of a homemaking career.” Kiyoomi deadpans.

“Very grateful again, as observed,” Atsumu makes a face at him and pulls the salt from the under–counter cabinet it was resting peacefully in. “I took my time to explore yer kitchen… Are yer parents filthy rich or sumt’n?”

Kiyoomi’s face twists into something unreadable. “Partly.”

He steps further into the room, noticing more about it than usual now that there’s another human in it — something that doesn’t happen often. The thing he likes most about the kitchen, and one of the reasons he picked this house, is that the wall right across him was fully transparent, taking in the park view, letting him to look at greenery while sipping his coffee in the morning while he’s reading the news. The beauty helps him forget about his roots. Sometimes.

“Hmm… How much do ya like spice?”

“I’m fine with it until it burns my tongue off,” Kiyoomi says slowly, while perching himself atop one of the stools to watch Atsumu.

“Mkay, we’ll be havin’ a spicy evening!” says Atsumu with glee.

“Phrasing, Miya.”

“Ya never know,” Atsumu winks at him before pouring honestly a _lot_ of chili peppers into the tofu pan.

Kiyoomi ignores him wholly.

“Where did you learn how to cook?” He asks with mild curiosity, because Atsumu _knows_ how to move around a kitchen. And also because it is fucking weird to have a stranger, and of all people _Miya Atsumu_ in his house, and not fill the silence. He feels unsettled, and unable to deal with tension now that they’re in his safe space.

He wants to fiddle. He doesn’t.

“Ah well, it’s been around since we’ve been little I think,” says Atsumu, too busy chopping up the cauliflower and completely oblivious to Kiyoomi’s apprehension. “Ma would always work. ‘Samu and I always swapped cookin’ and cleanin’, though I had to master cookin’ because the dickhead only thinks about food and I needed his attention sometimes.”

“Hmm.”

“Why, didja expect me to be a caveman?”

“Kind of,” retorts Kiyoomi. “You don’t exactly come off as the epitome of wholesome and successful household domesticity.”

Kiyoomi expects a cheeky answer, but Atsumu just laughs. 

The sweet laughter rings throughout the kitchen. Kiyoomi wonders briefly why it sounds cute, and also how Atsumu manages to look like he _belongs_ in this kitchen, in Kiyoomi’s apron, cooking for the both of them, so comfortable that it makes Kiyoomi wonder for a moment if this is not Atsumu’s first time in this house.

He watches as Atsumu turns down the stove and starts to cook the vegetables. He quickly opens the refrigerator again to withdraw a pack of noodles, and throws them into water. While Kiyoomi watches Atsumu waiting for the food to cook and starting to clean the countertop, he wonders how this happened, what loops of life brought Atsumu this self-assured confidence. It’s interesting, really, that a brat like him knows how to clean after himself. Kiyoomi knows for a fact that Miya Osamu has an onigiri restaurant, but he hadn’t thought that Atsumu actually partook in the cooking process itself.

Atsumu rattles the cupboard doors until he finds the black plates and next to them, wine glasses.

“Wine?”

Kiyoomi assesses the situation for a good second. “Wine now or whiskey later?”

“Why not both?” Atsumu smiles, big and alight.

“I don’t want Meian coming after me just because you missed practice, or worse, turned up completely disheveled in a hangover.”

“Omi-omi, are you worried about me?” Atsumu asks, eyes twinkling.

Kiyoomi scoffs. “Are you _that_ attention-starved to think that I’m worried just because I don’t want to be held responsible for _your_ moronic behaviour?”

“Awwww, Omi-kun _cares,”_ Atsumu woos, looks unable to help the gaudy smile on his face.

“God, whatever, Miya,” Kiyoomi groans, willing to do anything to shut the man up, although… his endless blabbering keeps Kiyoomi’s mind off from the upcoming weeks. He doesn’t have practice tomorrow, or for three weeks in that matter. The setter can take care of himself. “You can deal with yourself on your own. I’ll get the wine.”

The sooner he gets drunk, the sooner he can forget the pain of his hand. And the sooner they get drunk, the sooner he gets to being left alone.

Retrieving a bottle of chilled white wine from the refrigerator, he finds himself struggling as he tries to open it with a corkscrew because, well, he has one hand required to both hold the bottle and push the screw in.

“Lemme do that for ya,” Atsumu chimes in, taking the bottle from him with the lightest touch feathering on Kiyoomi’s skin, giving him a subsequent tingling sensation.

He sighs and sits down on the bar stool, looking at the set up. The mouth–watering smell reminds Kiyoomi of his hunger, and Atsumu has put the chopsticks and the knives in the right places on the table – he even found the chopstick holders. Intriguing.

“Here we go,” Atsumu says with two wine glasses in hand, placing them onto the table.

He sits down, and Kiyoomi hesitates, thinking of how he’s supposed to eat. He starts to use his left hand to clumsily hold the tofu in bite–sized pieces and bring them to his mouth, and it’s a messy process. His hands shake, it’s hard to get accustomed to the feeling of holding the chopsticks properly, and the vegetables keep dropping back onto the plate.

Noticing his struggle immediately, Atsumu puts his own chopsticks down and leans forward. “Gimme.”

“What?”

“Gimme the chopsticks.”

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu wordlessly. Atsumu raises a brow, hand extended, as if daring Kiyoomi to refuse so he can force his way through.

Kiyoomi hands him the chopsticks with a hard time keeping his face straight. Atsumu slowly picks up a piece of tofu and holds it in front of Kiyoomi’s mouth. He takes in the bite, not breaking eye contact with Atsumu. He sees Atsumu’s smug expression crumble around the edges, and the setter swallows.

Kiyoomi’s sure that he’s punishing Atsumu for helping him. He doesn’t know what has held him back from snapping at the boy for treating him with such pity, _but the thing is,_ he realizes, _it isn’t pity._

The focused _care_ Atsumu’s providing him without any snide remarks about Kiyoomi being in debt, it dazes him a little. Atsumu bites his lower lip as he tries to hold his hand steady in front of Kiyoomi’s mouth, tries to pick the bite sized pieces for him, and cuts others carefully into the right size while he’s chewing. It feels genuinely similar to the care the setter puts into every toss, designed and executed specifically for his own quirks, strengths and preferences.

The thought of how much Kiyoomi has missed being cared about flies willy–nilly through his head, and he discards the thought immediately, getting a weird pang of disconcertion in his stomach.

Atsumu feeds him silently until Kiyoomi’s plate is empty and Kiyoomi is on his fourth glass of wine.

“In a hurry, Omi–kun?” he drawls with a lazy satisfaction.

No answer aside from a scoff. The emotional intensity of the situation is already overwhelming and Kiyoomi’s not sure if he can deal with guilt scarring the soft expression he’s been watching for a while now.

Atsumu eats his own food silently, stealing glances as Kiyoomi sips his wine mindlessly. Once finished, he cleans up the table, finding the whiskey glasses as Kiyoomi stands up, a bit wobbly on his feet. He lets out a sigh, thankful that the pain is receding.

“Who knew ya were lightweight, Omi–omi?” Atsumu asks with a condescending smirk while putting ice into the glasses.

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi replies tersely, resolutely and tipsily walking towards the living room.

✵

Atsumu finds the aged whiskey’s bottle on the perfectly dusted black bar in the living room, and pours both of them a double. He sits at the end of the couch, a good distance between the two men. Putting the whiskey glasses in front of them, he takes the remote and opens the TV.

“Wanna rewatch last year’s World Cup?”

“To see the USA destroy Japan once more?”

“S’not big news anymore,” Atsumu says with a hefty laugh. “Y’know, what relaxes me a lot is to watch mediocre volleyball games and comment on the postures of players who I probably will never meet.”

“Who you prob’ly should _never_ meet, Miya,” Sakusa slurs. “What a mean hobby.”

“It relaxes me!”

“There are other ways of relaxing.”

Atsumu swallows the innuendo on the tip of his tongue. “Don’t tell me cleanin’ or I’ll–”

“No, for example, rearranging the furniture, cake decorating videos or, in this case, having a drink with a teammate. Things that do not include insulting others.”

 _A teammate,_ Atsumu thinks with a sudden turn in his stomach. Not even a friend. A teammate.

“Yea, I reckon’ I can see that,” Atsumu says, ignoring the feeling.

“But also cleaning.”

“Ohmygod.” Atsumu buries his head into the pillow next to him, making an aggravated sound. He hears the soft noise of Sakusa chuckling, raising his head immediately to see what a genuine laugh looks on his face, and finding himself staring because _what the hell he looks so soft I want to –_

“Refill?” Sakusa asks. Both of their glasses are empty, and Atsumu figures that the two glasses of wine he downed on an empty stomach before dinner and this last double whiskey were not great choices for the training tomorrow, because he is slightly dizzy.

He’s not sure the liquid courage currently coursing through his veins is enough for relaxing after such a day, so he nods at Sakusa, who is holding the whiskey bottle and looking stupidly content.

Sakusa fills a single for himself and downs it in one go, still standing, and doubles over himself with fits of coughing. Atsumu raises an eyebrow, grinning.

“Yer really in a hurry.”

Sakusa keeps lightly coughing while putting the whiskey glasses onto the bar, pouring both of them another double, and puts the whiskey glasses in front of Atsumu before collapsing onto the sofa.

“It’s for.. the pain,” Atsumu hears Sakusa murmuring.

He asks with slight worry in his voice, all humor disappearing in an instant. “How’s yer hand?”

“Mmm, hurts,” Sakusa slurs to the ceiling, head fallen back onto the cushion, socked feet almost on Atsumu’s lap. Atsumu shifts hesitantly, unsure about what to do with the radiating heat from Sakusa’s feet and his urge to pull them onto his lap to rub them.

“I’m sorry, Omi–kun,” he murmurs, hand clenching around the whiskey glass.

“Why’re you so…? It’s just an accident... They always happen.” Sakusa lifts his head up from the sofa and looks at him, eyes glossy and a bit unfocused.

“Because…” Atsumu’s sentence trails off, unwilling to admit his fascination towards his hands. So elegant to look at, but capable of such strength on the court. “I just feel guilty, y’know? Ya won’t be able to practice for three weeks now.”

“Not the end of the world,” Sakusa says, head once again falling onto the sofa. “Have a lot to do to waste time, too,” he adds.

“Not jerkin’ off, I s’pose, lookin’ at how clumsy ya were with yer left,” Atsumu jokes before thinking twice. When self-awareness hits him, he bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

Sakusa’s head rises from the sofa slowly, turning to look at him. Much to Atsumu’s surprise, it’s not the fixed death glare he’s used to, but something more amused.

“I suppose, yeah. It couldn’t be helped.” Sakusa says with a smile hidden in his voice.

Atsumu falls silent. Thoughts are racing in his head like wild horses, and he doesn’t know how or which to tame.

He looks at the feet in fluffy socks. This might be his only shot before Sakusa kicks him out of the house and never allows him inside again. And in an instant, he feels the cocksure grin wide across his face.

“I can help.”

“What?” Sakusa slurs, the alcohol seeping deeper into his blood.

“I can help. With the jerkin’ off.”

Sakusa looks at him. And he looks at him for a long while. Atsumu cannot decipher the penetrating gaze, and he opens his mouth to somewhat soften the blow. “Omi-kun, I did–”

“That could happen, actually.”

Atsumu’s mouth falls open.

Who knew drunk Omi was _this_ chill?

There is a silence, now a long and confused one. Atsumu feels the blood and the momentary courage drain from his face, not knowing what to do with his hands. Sakusa turns sideways and walks on his knees towards him with a half-lidded gaze.

“Did you mean that?”

Atsumu opens his mouth, and smartly closes it before he says something idiotic. Then he swallows. “Yes, I did.”

Sakusa looks at him, and Atsumu can swear he can hear him thinking like a stuttering clock, seconds mingling with one another with dizzy footsteps. They are drunk. This is his _teammate._ This is _wrong._

But he _wants_ it.

He wants it so much.

When Sakusa climbs on top of Atsumu, it gets harder to hold onto his ethics. The thighs clad in soft cotton straddle him, and Sakusa looks at him again, head tipping to one side. Atsumu opens his mouth to resist, but the words die on his lips when Sakusa leans in, dangerously close to his face, breaths mingling and heavy with alcohol.

They stay like that: stunned, silent. Sakusa smiles, eyes darting between Atsumu’s, and he leans in further.

All thoughts go down the drain when Sakusa’s soft lips crash onto his. Atsumu feels his stomach dropping, and he reflexively holds Sakusa by the waist to pull him closer. Sakusa moans into his mouth and opens his own, inviting Atsumu’s tongue to glide in and explore. The moan suddenly doubles the room’s temperature, freezes the breath in the middle of Atsumu’s throat.

He reluctantly licks into Sakusa’s mouth, self-conscious and questioning, and Sakusa sucks on his tongue. He tastes the rich and aromatic alcohol on Sakusa, and his reward is a wonderful noise when he finds himself slowly biting Sakusa’s lower lip. He bites a little harder, wondering how far he can go. Sakusa groans, hands flying up to Atsumu’s hair to settle better on his lap. He kisses Atsumu with such full force that it tastes victorious, and Atsumu can’t help the surprised gasp rising from his throat.

Atsumu is pretty sure he’s on fire, or on his way to hell, or both. Having Sakusa on his lap panting for him, the wet noises their lips make when they part to breathe and Sakusa’s gaze are giving him such intense pleasure that he is too afraid to look for a reason. He makes a displeased noise when Sakusa breaks the kiss. Sakusa presses his forehead onto his, trying to breathe. Both breaths are labored, and Atsumu can feel a drop of sweat rolling from his forehead. He cannot hold himself back, and places a small kiss on top of Sakusa’s nose.

Sakusa’s eyelids flutter open and he looks at him. The black stare Atsumu’s so used to deciphering is now intense but not with the usual darkness; Atsumu can see the desire, almost tangible in Sakusa’s expression, and something else; very soft, so vulnerable that Atsumu’s afraid of looking further, afraid of getting possessed by the light in his eyes, afraid that it will ruin them both.

He can see Sakusa’s lips are parted and wet, and throws his head back to stop himself from pulling the beautiful man into another intense kiss. They’re both drunk, although Atsumu would count himself leaning more onto the tipsy side. Still, this is Sakusa kissing him, Sakusa _kissing_ him – Atsumu cannot let go of the knots in his stomach.

As much as he loves having Sakusa looking at him like that – the sole thought of it makes him inhale sharply – his chest crumbles and freezes at the thought of Sakusa waking up in the morning, regretful and disgusted by what happened the night before.

“Omi–” and the words are stuffed right into his mouth when Sakusa’s warm tongue slides on his neck, sloppily lining it with kisses from his clavicle riding up towards his ear. When his mouth reaches the earlobe, he nibbles at it. All hot breath and lust into Atsumu’s ear, he asks. “Yes, ‘Tsumu?”

Atsumu attempts to reply just when Sakusa grinds onto him slowly, ripping a broken moan out of him, and Atsumu feels his cock getting unbearably hard against Sakusa’s own. He hears Sakusa huff a laugh into his ear. “Yeah, I thought so.”

“No,” he breathes quickly as if he could escape the overload of sensations if he speaks fast.

Sakusa withdraws, questioning.

“Areya sure?” Atsumu breathes in a hurry. “Willya not regret this in the mornin’?”

“Mmm, Tsumu,” Sakusa slurs, tilting his head. “Likely, but doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”

He leans forward as if to kiss Atsumu once more, and Atsumu finds himself placing his hands onto Sakusa’s shoulders to put a safe distance between them.

“As flattered as I am,” he pants, “we’re drunk.”

Annoyance flashes in Sakusa’s eyes as he takes in the momentary rejection.

“Areya sure ya won’t regret this?” Atsumu asks again, hating himself for possibly missing out on Sakusa, but unable to hold himself back because the things that can be shattered just for a night of —

“It’s just some mindless sex, Miya,” Sakusa says, expression once again fixed to darkness. Atsumu feels a chord fracture in his stomach. “Why would I regret this?”

Atsumu cannot respond.

Sakusa blinks. “Do you want me?”

After a pause that feels like an eternity, Atsumu speaks. “I do.”

And it’s the truth.

“Do you?” Atsumu asks.

“Yes.”

The tension is almost tangible.

“Do you want me to continue?” Sakusa asks, unreadable.

“Yes.” Atsumu’s voice comes out hoarse. He feels like he’s ruining something beautiful by taking a wrong step, just like the moment before he landed on the court when he knew something was wrong.

But in a second, he has to let go of the feeling as the lust swallows himself whole.

Because Sakusa bites Atsumu’s earlobe, hard, and Atsumu finds himself moaning loudly and his pants growing more uncomfortable by the second. _The bites,_ he thinks to himself, chaotically distracting his train of thought. They haven’t done anything other than kissing and biting, and the bites themselves seem to push Atsumu higher than the kisses.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa says while pulling Atsumu’s hair and revealing the vulnerable flesh of his neck, “be good.”

Sakusa doesn’t wait for a reply, nor can Atsumu give one because as soon as Sakusa says the three words the air is knocked out of his lungs, and then the asshole bites and sucks hard on his neck. With incessant growls rising from Atsumu’s throat, all he can do is squirm and let Sakusa devour him, which when thought about it doesn’t seem to be a bad thing at all.

The thing is, Atsumu can’t think _at all._

His fingers dig into Sakusa’s skin under his t–shirt, and he freezes for a second, worrying about whether Sakusa is okay with the touch, but the other man doesn’t seem to care at all, if not sucking at his neck more deeply. The pain of his neck blossoming into definite bruises makes Atsumu release a sigh, as if he’s admitting defeat to the chemistry and letting it push him higher than he’s ever felt. Sakusa suddenly turns his head and bites Atsumu on his jawline and speaks between his teeth. “Liking it, ‘Tsumu?”

“Hnnnggg,” is the only answer Atsumu can give because _holy hell he didn’t know he could get turned on so much from biting._ Sakusa laughs. The soft but now devilish sound rings into Atsumu’s ears. It makes him wonder what it’s like to hear Sakusa moan, under him.

With a sudden movement, he flips Sakusa over to his back and instantly feels Sakusa’s thighs tightening around his waist.

“You,” Atsumu breathes into Sakusa’s ear, trying to not look at his face because the half–lidded gaze will surely be the end of him. “What do I do with you?” He raises his head to find Sakusa looking at him with amusement.

“Anythin’ you want,” Sakusa slurs with a corrupted smile.

And the last thread holding Atsumu back snaps with a miserable, tiny sound.

He absolutely loses the remaining control he tried to have, and forces his lips so hard onto Sakusa’s that he’s sure they’re going to bruise soon – well, if they haven’t already, as Atsumu was biting them while Sakusa feasted on his tender skin. He holds Sakusa by both sides of his neck, as if it could bring them closer together.

Kiyoomi understands. The need to be closer than physicality allows, the urge to be within each other. He understands, deeply. And there is something that can help.

“Choke me.”

Atsumu freezes in the kiss, and withdraws his face to look at Kiyoomi with glossy eyes and swollen, wet lips. A nasty smirk finds its way through his face. A hand slowly tightens around Kiyoomi’s neck, and Atsumu speaks. “Look at me.”

Kiyoomi opens his eyes, not knowing when he shut them, and looks Atsumu in the eye as the fingers cut his airway, right on the edges of his airpipe. His eyes roll backwards, and he throws his head back as a loud moan tries to ripple from him in choked gasps. He tries to grind onto Atsumu, but he feels the delicious weight of the body on him get even heavier when Atsumu beats him to it. Kiyoomi can feel the sparks at his fingertips and toes, can see the blinding shapes before his eyelids, and he is so hard and he can’t breathe and it feels so _right_ —

Suddenly air fills his lungs and he inhales, deep and desperate, and feels Atsumu’s lips on his neck.

“Kinky, Kiyoomi,” he says, probably through the same grin with Kiyoomi’s skin between his teeth. He brings a hand up and sloppily strips Kiyoomi of his t–shirt. He raises his arms while panting to get rid of the clothing, and Atsumu has to take a moment to just stare.

Sakusa notices his pause. With dark and hungry eyes, the corner of his lips curl. “First time?”

Atsumu ignores the mockery, still staring. “I hadn’t guessed… that ya’d be so _beautiful,_ Omi–kun.”

Sakusa raises a brow and thanks him, so indifferent that Atsumu feels heat enveloping his own face. Is this the same man that was crumbling while choked, now with no reaction to compliments?

It apparently is. Atsumu shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Yer so pretty I’ve this urge to punch ya, y’know?” Atsumu says, still staring. His eyes dart up and down onto Sakusa’s pale chest, beauty marks sprinkled here and there, his lean but sturdy upper body. Sakusa’s breathing heavily, his chest heaving and making Atsumu unable to take his eyes off.

“You can punch me all you like,” Sakusa says with a dark smile. “But I’d rather be slapped.”

Atsumu feels something blocking his intake of air.

“Will you fuck me, or just stare?” Sakusa asks with a sly expression.

Atsumu feels his lips curl into something he’d define as the silence before the storm.

“I’m gonna unravel ya, Kiyoomi.”

✵

The thoughts are fuzzy in Kiyoomi’s mind, but he knew this was going to happen one day or another, this way or another. On one hand, he is distantly surprised that he’s saying such lewd things to Atsumu; on the other hand, again, this was bound to happen, so the speed of escalation really comes as no surprise. Deep down he knew he wouldn’t die without kissing Atsumu one day, all his suppressed desires inflating within and filling him with hunger.

He is hungry, _desperate_ to see Atsumu naked. So many times, maybe too many, he had spent fantasizing about Atsumu choking him, slapping him and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, and the sole thought of Atsumu fucking him made him moan into the shower tiles more often than he’d care to admit.

So, it all makes sense, all of this shamelessness, when Atsumu scoops him up in one single fluent motion and walks towards the bedroom. Where he thinks the bedroom is, actually.

“That’s the guest bedroom, Miya,” Kiyoomi _giggles._ God, he’s _drunk._

“I would drop you this instant if your giggle wasn’t that adorable,” Atsumu grumbles, trying to locate the room.

“The door to the left,” Kiyoomi breathes, wondering why the man is even bothering with compliments when Kiyoomi is literally in his arms, waiting to be thrown at a bed and fucked out of every single thought he has. There is no point to it, he’s already _willing._

Atsumu raises his leg and drunkenly opens the door with his foot on the door handle.

He enters the vast bedroom and swoons on his feet for a while, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He then spots the bed, walks and drops Kiyoomi onto it. Kiyoomi tries to scoot backwards but suddenly remembers that his right hand is out of order when he leans onto it, a sudden spark of pain glowing behind his eyes. “Ahh–”

“Ya okay?” Atsumu is hovering over him in an instant. His expression is so worried and tender for a second that Kiyoomi suddenly feels the urge to cup his cheek and whisper something sweet, just to relieve the man. His eyes fly wide at the ridiculousness of the thought, completely horrified by the extent of his apparent lack of control. He shoves the thought back down into wherever it emerged, and curses it to die there.

Atsumu frowns, completely oblivious to the trainwreck of thoughts in Kiyoomi’s mind. “Omi, ya okay?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi breathes, discarding the heavy thought with a flick of his head.

“I’m lookin’ for the light, I couldn’t–”

Kiyoomi reaches over and flicks open the bed lamp, which goes around the whole bedpost in a string of small fairy lights. He leans back and watches Atsumu’s face as he takes it in.

For an instant Atsumu looks confused, trying to understand why one source of light is illuminating so much, and when he realizes that the corner the bed stands in is covered fully with mirrors, reflecting him and the lights, his eyes go comically wide. He raises one hand as if to believe this is real, and watches his reflections on both mirrors.

Then his gaze hovers over to Kiyoomi, and suddenly the awe leaves its place to raw hunger.

“Back to bus’ness,” Atsumu says with a wide, rough smile.

He leans down and crashes onto Kiyoomi with a bruising kiss. Kiyoomi wraps his legs around Atsumu’s waist and notices that the man is still fully clothed. Making a desperate and discontent noise, he grips and tugs at Atsumu’s tank top.

“Oh, ya wanna see me naked, dontcha?” Atsumu says with a grin.

“Yes, want an explanation?”

“As much as I’d like that, I don’t think I can stand to wait–” Atsumu’s sentence is broken in half as Kiyoomi pulls him into another harsh kiss, tongues working everywhere, Kiyoomi biting him and being rewarded with moans. He tugs at the top and pulls it over Atsumu’s head. And then it is his turn to stare.

He knows, from training, how Atsumu looked half–naked. Half–naked and glistening with sweat, with a bothered look on his face, so hot it makes Kiyoomi’s stomach twist in an uncomfortable way. But to have him _on his bed,_ watching him; this amusement mixed with lust is something entirely different. It makes Kiyoomi’s mouth go dry and a shiver go down his spine.

He can’t wait though, not after _so long._

But Atsumu takes a step back.

“I’ll give ya a good show, Omi,” Atsumu winks at him and retreats further, standing at the end of the bed. He takes his phone out of his pockets, hurriedly tapping on it, and then there’s sudden music rising from the phone at full volume with a slow vocal.

He looks at Kiyoomi and bites his bottom lip, hands dancing over his abdomen smoothly. He undoes the strings of his sweatpants, playing with the hem, lowering one side low enough that his lower abdomen’s V cut is on display, and Kiyoomi feels his breath abandoning him.

He now realizes that he might be in over his head. Fucking Atsumu, he thought, would be a semi-long session of thoughtless sex. But this. This is something else, and it steals away beats from Kiyoomi’s heart, forcing him to take deep breaths.

Atsumu raises both arms, fingertips touching each other with featherlike caresses, then brings one hand down; softly trailing the line of his bicep, then his neck, then he harshly swipes away at his cheekbone and opens his eyes to stare Kiyoomi right in the eye.

Kiyoomi is speechless. Brain empty, only the thought of Atsumu dancing for him, Atsumu _wanting_ to dance for him, Atsumu _exposing_ himself like this. He swallows.

Atsumu flexes his abdomen, hands touching his body as he slowly grinds, almost looking like he’s liquid but also very solid with all the muscular definitions. He throws his head back and swirls slowly. Kiyoomi takes it all in. The length of Atsumu’s neck, the bruises _he_ made, the marks that state _he_ was there. A sudden possessiveness conquers him. He bites his bottom lip as his gaze swims in alcohol and lust.

Then there’s the ridiculously built shoulders – the shoulders that flexed when he scooped Kiyoomi up, the shoulders he clung onto while being carried. The shoulders that are defining each indent and muscle as Atsumu dances his way into the groove.

His eyes hungrily gaze down, to watch his biceps, his thick forearms that Kiyoomi wants to bite, the abdomen, the V cut, the hips –

The music explodes with low bass, and there is this beat that makes Kiyoomi grind his hips onto the mattress and trying to fuck thin air. Atsumu notices and flashes a smile while turning around, and bending over slowly, taking his socks off while gifting Kiyoomi with a solid view. He then arches back up, turning around with hands in hair and on his neck, roughly caressing his skin and clawing at places Kiyoomi thinks he wants to be bitten at.

It makes his mouth water.

“Ya wanna see what these sweatpants hold, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks mischievously, a glint in his hooded gaze.

Kiyoomi can’t reply.

He’s not sure he’s functioning.

Atsumu takes a step forward, licking his palm, and putting his hand down into the sweatpants, slowly stroking his visible length.

“Fuck, yes,” Kiyoomi finds himself panting.

“Ya wanna see me naked?”

Kiyoomi nods wordlessly.

“Use your words, Omi-kun,” Atsumu teases.

“Strip. Strip for me, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi hears himself almost begging. No, his voice _did not_ crack at the end of the sentence.

“If you’re so desperate for it, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, face suddenly serious. He slowly drags the sweatpants down and kicks them off haphazardly. Then he’s on all fours, slowly crawling towards Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi can feel the bass controlling his blood flow, can swear he won’t survive this, can’t believe he waited so long –

“You’re panting, Omi,” Atsumu says with a devious smile. “Excited?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply, because he can’t, but he grabs Atsumu by the throat, almost choking him, and gives him an intense kiss on the lips, ending with bites. When he draws back Atsumu is staring at him, eyes lit with fire.

Atsumu straddles him and Kiyoomi can see where the precome has leaked and stained the man’s green boxer briefs a little. He smells like Kiyoomi’s guest body wash, he smells like _home –_ all thoughts fly away again when Atsumu raises his hands and starts slowly grinding onto Kiyoomi, bending his body in ways Kiyoomi didn’t know he was capable of.

He alternates grinding with jumping slightly on Kiyoomi’s lap, he alternates dancing with bending over and leaving hickeys on Kiyoomi’s pale chest but never ending the contact between their groins. Kiyoomi finds himself leaving scratch marks over Atsumu’s flexed waist, his abdomen and his shoulders, and he’s overcome with the urge to scream because of the man atop him dancing like there’s no tomorrow. His cock is so hard it aches, but Atsumu giving him _this_ lap dance is not something he’s going to give away easily just to fuck him. A strangled groan rises from his chest.

Atsumu himself seems lost in the music. He bends, flexes his abs and stretches backwards like he’s made for this. He probably is. He seems to be having so much fun that, if Kiyoomi could take his brain back into his head from where it currently resides between his legs, he could stare at him having the fun of his life forever, giving him a private show.

As the song goes deeper into its beat and gets heavier, Atsumu leans onto his hands behind him, and slowly thrusts his pelvis into the air, making small contact with Kiyoomi but mesmerizing nonetheless. He throws his head back and bends his body in ways that make Kiyoomi’s mind go blank. Is this too much alcohol or is it just Atsumu?

 _Where_ did he learn to dance like _this?_

No time to think, though, because as the song flows slowly to its end, Atsumu has that glint again in his eye.

“Enough eye candy for ya, I s’pose. Now, Omi,” he whispers into Kiyoomi’s ear, grazing his teeth over his cheekbone.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what that means but will give anything to Atsumu right now – he’s drunk on lust, alcohol and endorphins. Atsumu crawls backwards, leaving Kiyoomi with a raging boner and no contact. Kiyoomi can’t help the desperate noise escaping his chest.

Another song begins, with riffs and a steady drum beat, and Kiyoomi feels his blood sing along. Atsumu tugs and violently jerks off Kiyoomi’s pants, licking his lips as he sees Kiyoomi’s length visible, a blotch of precome darkening the already black underwear. He throws the pants away, and bends down, licking at Kiyoomi’s inner thigh.

Kiyoomi’s right leg twitches traitorously and his stomach drops, so he bends his knee to stop himself from shaking. Much to his horror Atsumu takes this opportunity to hook his knee at the crook of his own elbow, and bites hard at the tender skin of Kiyoomi’s inner thigh, dizzying him.

He doesn’t know what kind of sound he produces while his head is swimming, but Atsumu makes a content noise and says, “Let’s see if I c’n make you make that sound again, yea?”

Atsumu doesn’t need to know that Kiyoomi will give him any sound he wants any second of this night, and Atsumu _really_ shouldn’t know about that, but Kiyoomi finds himself muttering “Anything you want,” into the pillow he’s been biting.

He hears Atsumu chuckle. “Very obedient, Kiyoomi, I like seeing you like this.”

And he then feels a hickey forming on his inner thigh. The pain mixes with the pleasure of Atsumu’s praise and the hand stroking him over the fabric of his boxers, and he throws his head back to moan loudly. He grinds his hips into the light friction Atsumu’s hand offers but there’s a loud smack and his stomach burns.

“Don’t move, Kiyoomi.”

Hearing his name so darkly uttered turns him so much that he feels the embarrassment flush his face, and his cock twitching at the feeling. It’s a struggle to not grind into Atsumu’s hand, and his breath starts to become laboured.

“Someone likes to be hit,” Atsumu observes. Kiyoomi whimpers helplessly, and moans when a hand harshly lands on his inner thigh.

“Answer me. Do you like to be hit?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi chokes out.

“Good. You don’t want to disappoint me, do you, Kiyoomi?” Atsumu asks, sweet poison in his voice, and Kiyoomi finds himself shaking his head furiously.

“I thought so,” Atsumu murmurs, and his teeth graze Kiyoomi’s groin to stop at the precome blotch.

Then he sucks.

Kiyoomi growls, hands instinctively flying to Atsumu’s hair to maximize the suction and the friction, but Atsumu holds his wrists as if he knew this was coming. He raises his head, looking with marvel at the undamaged hand. He takes Kiyoomi’s index finger into his mouth, looking directly into his eyes, and takes it to the knuckle. He lets go of the finger only after playing with the web between his fingers with his tongue, leaving Kiyoomi feeling funny and… adored.

He kisses each knuckle on Kiyoomi’s left hand, muttering something soft over his skin before pressing a firm kiss onto his palm. He then mutters another thing onto the bandages of his right hand, kissing the inside of his wrist. Intertwining their hands gently, he puts them safely on Kiyoomi’s sides, and lowers the boxers with his teeth.

Kiyoomi can feel his cock twitch in the cool air of the room but he himself feels on fire.

“Delicious,” is all Atsumu says before he takes his length in, all the way. Kiyoomi moans so loud that if any of the neighbors didn’t know, they do now. Atsumu doesn’t stop there however, and doesn’t give himself a second to adjust. His head bobs fluidly, up and down, and once in a while he stops himself, lips at the base of Kiyoomi’s cock, and swallows.

Kiyoomi is going to lose his mind. He’s not gonna make it through.

His eyes are screwed shut and he’s squeezing Atsumu’s hand as if to hold on for dear life but Atsumu suddenly stops. Kiyoomi whines and raises his head only to find an intense gaze trained on his face.

“Watch me suck ya off,” Atsumu growls. “I am doing it for ya. Ya better watch.”

Then he takes the tip of Kiyoomi’s cock into his mouth, not breaking eye contact, and swirls it around with his tongue. He nibbles lightly at Kiyoomi’s frenulum with his teeth and earns a growl. Kiyoomi can’t take his eyes off of him. To see Atsumu lick and suck his dick like it’s candy, the suggestive stare that’s drilling holes into his head, the way Atsumu’s eyelids flutter shut when taking him all in, the mirror’s reflection showing him the delicious scene ––

He’s feeling the heat pooling in his groin. He moans and squeezes Atsumu’s hand. He’s hardly breathing or he’s burning alive, he doesn’t know, and he finds himself stuttering. “Tsumu, Tsumu I’m gonna–”

At that moment Atsumu leaves him and chokes him.

The lack of air makes it impossible to speak but possible to gasp, so Kiyoomi finds himself growling at the denial of his orgasm. His pelvis grinds into the air, looking for the heat and wet friction of Atsumu’s mouth. He groans, growls and feels his nails digging into Atsumu’s forearm. He opens his eyes to find Atsumu devilishly smiling at him, slowly relaxing his hand on Kiyoomi’s throat and letting him breathe back in.

“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi hisses in the fury of his denial.

He hears the slap first, and then feels his cheek burning before Atsumu holds him by the throat and growls, “That’s no way to speak to someone who hand–fed you an hour ago, is it, _Sakusa?_ ”

Kiyoomi feels his eyes widen, his cock going incredibly hard at the harsh tone. He bites his lip, nodding and mumbling a silent apology.

“Good boy.” Atsumu says. “Where is the lube?”

Kiyoomi gestures towards the nightstand; aroused from the slap, warm and fuzzy from the praise, and Atsumu emerges within a few seconds with the bottle of lube and a condom.

He suddenly flips Kiyoomi over, stripping him off the boxers as well, and slapping his right ass cheek without hesitation. Kiyoomi finds himself groaning into the comforter.

Atsumu stretches his hand forward, holding two digits in front of Kiyoomi’s mouth. Kiyoomi doesn’t miss a beat; he opens his mouth and lolls his tongue around his fingers, trying to get them as wet as possible, and is left with spit dripping onto his chin when Atsumu withdraws his fingers.

He feels two fingers sliding into his hole without delay, and Kiyoomi grips at the sheets only to remind him that he cannot grip anything with his right hand. The pain shocks him but makes him only harder when it’s mixed with the blinding pleasure of Miya Atsumu _fingering_ him.

When he takes his fingers out, Atsumu pours lube onto his hand and doesn’t wait for it to warm up, sliding two cool fingers into him again and fucking him while his hand scratches Kiyoomi’s back slowly. He looks at the mirror, smirking at Kiyoomi sprawled out onto the bed with his ass in the air, and grins while adding a third finger and stretching Kiyoomi.

“Pl’se..”

Atsumu leans forward, pushing his fingers deeper. “What’s that?”

“Please…” It comes out as a gasp.

Kiyoomi doesn’t even know what he’s begging for.

“Open communication needed,” says Atsumu, a smirk lifting his lips just a little.

 _“Please_ fuck me,” Kiyoomi groans into the mattress.

“Oh,” Atsumu says, mockingly surprised. “Now that you mention it…”

Atsumu withdraws his fingers from him. Kiyoomi gasps at the sudden vacancy.

He hears the condom wrap tear, and he opens his eyes to see from the mirror that Atsumu is taking his boxers off. Kiyoomi’s eyes are suddenly fixated on Atsumu’s cock. His dizzy mind can’t calculate the length but he’s pretty sure the thickness will fill him up.

He’s _hungry._

He wants him in.

Atsumu gets behind him, and leans down to bite at Kiyoomi’s left ass cheek hard enough that it surely is going to imprint. Kiyoomi makes a noise that sounds more animal than human, and almost gasps a “Please, Atsumu, _please”._

Atsumu lines up with him, taking a second to marvel at the beauty of the scene, looking at the mirror on his right side to see _them,_ to see Sakusa’s face so undone as he’s breathing into the mattress. He looks even more beautiful like this. Atsumu still is fighting the urge to slap the man for being so goddamn _gorgeous._ So, he takes his time to tease while not entirely pushing in. Sakusa screams into the pillow with frustration, and Atsumu smirks.

He then suddenly pushes all his length in, almost buckling over by how _hot and slick_ the pressure is. He hears Sakusa half sob and half gasp, and he watches the back muscles strain and flex as Sakusa helplessly clings onto the headboard with his left hand. Atsumu lets out a full groan and throws his head back as he slowly thrusts out, and then back into the hot, wet, tight sensation.

The fact that this is unlike any other sex he’s had with a man refuses to go unnoticed in his mind. Atsumu marvels at how responsive Sakusa is: with every thrust a moan, an incoherent noise or just a deep grumble from his chest. The urge to make him bend, the _need_ to see him begging, the burning desire to see the blissed-out expression afterwards haunts him with every move.

He turns his head to see both of them alight by the fairy lights that so innocently are wrapped around the outline of the headboard, lewd sounds of skin hitting skin, Sakusa alternating between moaning and howling between thrusts and curses spilling from Atsumu’s mouth as he frowns because to be honest he should’ve expected it to be this good but he didn’t and now he’s unravelling––

He feels the heat entwining him, but he won’t let this one last this short. He slows down his thrusts painfully, groaning at the lack of sensation and hearing Sakusa whimper in despair.

No, he’s going to make this _count._

He bends over, hovering his hand over Sakusa’s mouth, then dragging it down to Sakusa’s throat.

“Ya liked it if I rem’mber correctly,” Atsumu growls, and then squeezes Sakusa’s throat as he slaps his ass. Sakusa gasps, left hand fisting at the headboard and slightly punching it.

Atsumu withdraws his hand from his throat and leans his left hand on Sakusa’s back while his right slowly reaches over and wraps his hand around Sakusa’s dick, all while thrusting slowly into him. When this is over, he’s going to be _remembered_ by Sakusa. In a good way.

Sakusa raises his ass further up, his lower and upper back muscles rippling at the motions, and lets out a loud groan that ripples deep from his chest. “Please,” he moans mindlessly. “Please please _please–_ ”

Atsumu smiles devilishly and starts pumping Sakusa’s cock while speeding up his own rhythm. He throws his head back again, letting a loud, thick growl fill the room. He’s so close, and he can’t even remember why he thought this would be a bad idea. He lowers his head back, and looks at Sakusa’s body, starting to shiver. Every intake of breath is a gasp and every exhale is a moan now, and Sakusa seems to be unravelling under the smooth layers of muscle dotted here and there with beauty marks.

“Atsumu, Atsumu–” he babbles incoherently, and Atsumu lets him. He quickens his hand and buries himself deep in Sakusa, other hand extended towards the black curly hair to pull it back.

Sakusa gasps, slightly blocked due to his throat being wide open and him facing the ceiling. He straight up yells as he comes hot and blazing over Atsumu’s hand and onto the comforter. “Atsumu, fuck YES yes yes yes– Atsumu– FUCK, ATSUMU!”

Watching Sakusa yelling his name while coming pushes Atsumu so incredibly closer to the edge, and he pulls on Sakusa’s curls harder, taking his right hand back and slapping on Sakusa’s ass. His hips seem to have a stuttering rhythm as he approaches the edge dangerously fast, and he finds himself biting Sakusa’s back and sucking on it harshly to not scream at the intensity of the orgasm. He keeps thrusting, brows furrowed together and mouth agape at the feeling, and slows down as he feels his bones melt away.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs as he collapses onto Sakusa.

Kiyoomi freezes momentarily as his brain tries to process the new information, but the heaviness of the orgasm and the extreme amount of alcohol is making him dizzy. All his thoughts are fuzzy like a thick fog has taken over and he can’t even be bothered to clean up. He lets the thought go, hums contentedly and drifts off to sleep.

✵

“What the fuck happened last night,” is not the first thought that crosses Sakusa Kiyoomi’s mind, but it’s the most tangible one.

Before that, he wakes up with a killer headache and his right hand hurts when he touches his forehead with it. A flash of events stream through his head like a movie – the spike, the ice, the MRI machine, Atsumu’s face –

Atsumu. Atsumu cooking for him. Then _drinking_ together, then – the kiss – the bed –

Kiyoomi snaps his head in horror to look at his left, and there he is: Miya Atsumu sleeping oh so peacefully, one hand under the pillow and the other on Kiyoomi’s stomach, chest moving slowly as he breathes. Hickeys peppered onto his neck like blossoming flowers, and from the mirror he can see that there are scratch marks on the man’s shoulders.

He sees his reflection from the mirror behind Atsumu and locks eyes with himself in horror to make sense of things.

_What the fuck happened last night?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh, thank you so much for reading this far!
> 
> any comments, kudoses or any kind of validation are so so so much appreciated! if you want to come scream at me, which I would love you to, you can do it on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mamabrainrot)
> 
> and yes, the cake decorating videos are a subtle salute to Terminal Curiosity for pushing me here. no regrets.


	2. lemon balm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiyoomi doesn’t want a relationship, to put it simply.
> 
> Because they always end, he thinks with a bored expression on his face, tapping the cigarette slowly on the side of the ashtray. After every “I love you”, somebody always falls out of love, somebody always ruins the whole thing; some things are not eternal despite the romantic effort to make–believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i kind of edited the first chapter on a scale from mild-medium, so if you do not want to get a moment of “where to hell did that come from”, i’d strongly recommend you to go ahead and re-read it.  
> also, someone did this for me, and I will Scream if anyone else does it -- what is this thing about twitter live reaction threads that make me feel like crying? we have no idea. but feel free.  
> enjoy!  
> PS: huge thanks to my betas and any friends who expressed their opinions about this. zoé, jenna, ash, adena, andie, ace…. i’m eternally thankful for you babies.  
> also, nil, because our initial brainrot was the reason i started this properly.

Kiyoomi inhales deeply, letting it out slowly.

He distantly wonders if they cuddled at some point in the night, because he can, although barely, remember the heat radiating onto his back from the man behind him and sinking into the embrace. As if the unfamiliar feeling of having a hand of the setter on Kiyoomi’s stomach doesn’t feel weird enough, like it will burn him any second.

Still, he doesn’t want to shuffle or to wake Atsumu up because then they will have to deal with this mess together. And he doesn’t even want to handle this himself right now. Not like he can, with this headache.

He regrets every life choice that brought him here.

 _Okay._ He takes measured breaths, counting the seconds to calm himself down. When he finally doesn’t feel his heart pulsing against his neck anymore, he lets himself think of last night.

They had sex. He had sex with Miya Atsumu. That much is certain, and it makes Kiyoomi’s stomach twist and roll.

He remembers, with clarity, Atsumu offering to help him jerk off. He remembers accepting him as well.

Not really a proud moment. Kiyoomi purses his lips.

Climbing on top of him, and everything after, is kind of obscure and cloudy.

He doesn’t remember how they ended up in his bedroom, but he’s almost certain that they didn’t have sex in the living room. In fact, he can recall staring at Atsumu from the mirror with the dim light reflecting on the glistening skin of the man atop him. He remembers Atsumu choking him. Kiyoomi scowls his embarrassment away. Images of the intense sexual intercourse suddenly flood his mind, and he looks down as if to make sure the proofs are still there –– and they are, resting grimly, whispering silent volumes of events unremembered in shades varying from dark crimson to purple on his chest.

There is a tangled feeling in his abdomen that tells him there’s something else, and Kiyoomi tries his best to remain calm while wracking his misty memory to find out what.

The sex didn’t have anything non–consensual. He even remembers the turbulence of Atsumu when all Kiyoomi wanted to do was kiss him, but he made sure to ask him if he was sure of his decision anyway. And Kiyoomi was. So, what is this combination of the entangled worry and the compression on his chest?

Kiyoomi furrows his brows again in thought.

He is mildly distracted by the smell of the shampoo coming from his hair, which is damp. He doesn’t remember taking a shower after last night. He slowly inches his head forward, and smells his own shampoo in Atsumu’s hair as well. While he tries to figure out when they showered, something clicks.

Oh.

_Oh._

Kiyoomi screws his eyes shut.

No, no. This could not be happening.

It surely was a mistake.

His stomach turns at the thought and for a moment his nausea is so intense that he prepares himself to gag, and the panic–driven thought of vomiting onto his own bed drives his anxiety higher. He breathes, again, slowly in and gently out until the nausea and the anxiety slowly mellow down.

His instant repulsion to this intimacy is such a natural response, such a genuine part of him that he doesn’t think much of it except to fight back the sudden urge to hyperventilate. What was that? A love confession out of the blue, when there is absolutely nothing between them? He _warned_ him – Kiyoomi _told_ him this was just mindless sex. What the fuck?

He wants to take a shower so badly. He wants to scrub his skin red until there is no residue of anything from last night. The physical cleaning is easy, a habit for Kiyoomi. But he doesn’t know how he will cleanse the remnants of intimacy. It makes him itch. He’s not sure how he should feel about this, but his emotions are tilting on the horrified side.

He’s not sure a sleeping Atsumu next to him covered in last night’s bruises is helping him either.

He silently detangles himself from the relaxed, long limbs and turns around one last time to check on the man in his bed. His eyes gaze over to focus on him, only to do a double take in the mirror. His ass. There’s a bite mark on his ass. And it’s bordering on purple.

He pads silently out of the room and locks himself into the bathroom. He leans on the door and slowly slides towards the floor, taking his head into his hands and sitting on the cold tile for a while.

✵

After taking his bandages off, taking a cold shower and inspecting his body, Kiyoomi quietly unlocks the bathroom door to find Atsumu still asleep. The man is sprawled out across the bed, quiet snoring accompanied by some occasional mumbling. His gut twists at the cozy domesticity of the scene. He gets his pants from where they’ve been thrown away at the foot of the bed, and quietly makes his way to the kitchen.

The headache isn’t going anywhere soon, so first he gulps down half a litre of water with two painkillers. His eyes gaze into the void when he lowers the bottle of water.

This morning deserves a cigarette. It really does.

Kiyoomi leans into the bar’s cupboard and finds the pack, hidden away so carefully. He proceeds to brew himself a cup of coffee, preferably a strong one. With the bandages off of his right hand, it looks red and swollen, and hurts every single time he touches something. While closing the cupboard he accidentally hits a corner with his hand and grips the edge of the counter, breath heavy and knuckles white, to stabilize himself.

He pours himself a cup; no water, no milk, no sugar. Then he sits down and takes a cigarette from the pack, the roll hanging limp between his lips until his focus comes back to him. He then purses his lips, lights the cigarette, and takes a long first inhale.

God, the burn feels good. He welcomes the nicotine into his bloodstream with gratitude.

He takes a sip of his coffee and feels his tongue burn.

_“I’m fine with it until it burns my tongue off.”  
“Mkay, we’ll be havin’ a spicy evening!” _

Fuck.

He tries to get his train of thought together. The feeling that something is wrong, terribly wrong engulfs him and Kiyoomi feels suffocated.

 _Let’s take it from the beginning,_ he thinks desperately, _systematically._

What happened last night was sloppy, but Kiyoomi doesn’t find himself feeling disgusted by any of it. Without the telltale signs of his panic rising to tell him something is off, he just lets it go for the moment, and focuses on the facts.

They had sex. That’s a bearable thought.

What is not bearable though, is the idea that Atsumu might be attracted to him – emotionally, that is – and Kiyoomi is not looking for another trainwreck, thank you. He doesn’t want to entangle himself into another tragedy of getting too proximal with someone who has an interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with him. He doesn’t want a relationship, to put it simply.

Because they always end, he thinks with a bored expression on his face, tapping the cigarette slowly on the side of the ashtray. After every “I love you”, somebody always falls out of love, somebody always ruins the whole thing; some things are not eternal despite the romantic effort to make–believe.

This is not news, though. This is not something sad, either. He knew this since before he was self–aware. It was one of the lessons that had its root deep into his hips, curling slowly towards his stomach and knotting there.

Kiyoomi knows that all relationships are doomed to fail no matter what, romantic or otherwise. Even in the best possible scenario where all odds are in somebodies’ favour and they get to live long, happy lives together, in the end one of them will pass away before the other. There is no choice but to leave everything behind and walk one’s own path.

When he was little, he recalls, he used to try to make friends, even with the ones who bullied him. Now in retrospect he wants to laugh at any efforts he put to create the illusion that he wasn’t alone in this world. It’s a long-forsaken habit now and the memory isn’t peaceful either – it digs its claws deep into Kiyoomi’s insides and hisses with tired, bloodshot eyes.

Well, at least now Kiyoomi knows what’s been bothering him. It’s the stifling need to make it clear that he has boundaries – the hard-earned lessons – that have been overstepped last night. He wants the cards laid bare on the table. He wants to declare that no, he is not interested in anything emotional.

He tries to ignore his breath catching as he notices that it’s a lie. After several seconds of reminding himself how to breathe, a condescending and pitiful laugh weakly leaves his mouth. Of course, despite all that has happened, through everything learned, he still has the inborn need to connect. He internally scoffs at himself. Pathetic.

But this aside, even if he wanted one, which he doesn’t _really,_ not aside from the obvious urge to bond that is a natural consequence of being a social animal, he doesn’t want to suffer through it. In the end, all that is remembered are the hurtful sentences, the heartbreak and the goodbyes. Good things slowly sparkle and fade away. It is, simply put, not worth it.

 _So now,_ Kiyoomi spirals back to his thoughts, he wants the cards on the table. Open and clear for everybody to hear. He’s not in the search for intimacy. The sex itself was fine.

 _Phenomenal, you meant?_ offers an optimistic voice inside him.

He internally scoffs but knows deep down that the adjective is somewhat appropriate. It was good. Very good, in fact. Better than what he would expect from Atsumu, anyway. Though he’s not going to admit more.

Sex is sex. It’s fun as it lasts, and then it perishes within the heavy fog of memory. Like everything else. So there’s no real point in gratifying it and getting attached to that, either.

He clears his throat. He puts out the cigarette kindly, now feeling much more balanced and in sync with himself.

 _Now,_ he thinks, _how was it?_

The fact that Atsumu did shower as soon as he was home shows Kiyoomi that the man was more considerate than he seems to be. But they didn’t use condoms for the oral sex. Kiyoomi scrunches his nose. It did feel much better than to have it with a condom, but he didn’t know whether Atsumu was clean, free of STDs or not, and it’s _not_ worth the risk. They get tested regularly, but who knows what kind of people Atsumu ends up in bed with.

A sudden anxiety spikes within Kiyoomi. He knows that a throat or mouth infection could have spread onto his own body, but he would have noticed if Atsumu was sick, he thinks. But still. Asymptomatic gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes, chlamydia. And these are just _a few._

He feels his skin crawling.

 _Well,_ his brain tries to offer something of a remedy, _he apparently showered afterwards and took you alongside._ If Kiyoomi doesn’t remember it, then he probably was drunk beyond the point he should have stopped. His eyebrows knit together. He shouldn’t have drunk that much. Distantly he appreciates Atsumu for washing him, because he doesn’t feel his skin crawling as much as it could have, and he knows it can do that very intensely.

Still, though. The STDs.

Well, he needs to ask about that. Immediately, in fact.

And as if on cue, Atsumu enters the kitchen, rubbing sleep off from his eyes, sweatpants riding low on his hips.

“Mornin’, Omi–omi,” he says with sleep dripping from his voice. Kiyoomi recognizes the long–foreseen fact that no, Miya Atsumu is not a morning person. “Smell’d the coffee. Couldn’t resist.”

“Morning, Miya.” Kiyoomi says, voice serene despite the turmoil inside. “There’s extra. You can take a cup.”

“Thanks,” Atsumu murmurs, proceeding to fetch a mug and pouring the coffee in, then takes the kettle to pour hot water onto it.

Not big on strong coffee, either.

Atsumu takes the cup and proceeds to the living room. “Can’t sit upright with no back support in the mornin’. Dunno how ya do it. I’ll be collapsin’ on the sofa.”

Kiyoomi wants to talk now, but it is clear that Atsumu needs time to sober up.

He leaves his empty cup in the sink after rinsing it lightly and walks to the living room, sitting at the end of the sofa. They have reverted in comparison to last night, both in position and feeling.

The two men sit in silence, one sipping coffee and yawning occasionally, the other watching the white wall patiently. One’s neck covered in burgundy flower prints, the other’s chest blossoming in rich, warm autumn shades. One conflicted and one meditative. One bathing in the morning light, the other swerving away from the compassionate burn. Kiyoomi doesn’t know where the line is drawn.

Finally, Atsumu finishes his cup. He stretches his arms above his head, stretches his neck and groans and Kiyoomi suddenly remembers. The lap dance. The flexibility of a tiger.

Clearing his throat, he speaks as Atsumu attempts to get up. “Miya, please sit down. We need to talk.”

Atsumu sits down, looking a bit sleepy, confused and soon enough, nervous.

“We need to talk about last night. And about what happened.”

Atsumu’s eyes go wide. “Why’re’ya talkin’ like it was a disaster, Omi–kun?”

Kiyoomi purposefully ignores him. “Last night.” he repeats, trying to gather Atsumu’s attention, “We had sex.”

“Yea, amazing sex.” Atsumu winks despite the tension in the room and laughs awkwardly.

Kiyoomi would be drilling holes into Atsumu’s brain right now if it was possible.

“It was okay,” he says after a steadying breath.

“Man, was it that bad?” Atsumu asks, unsure and anxious.

“No, Miya, it’s not about the quality of the sex. I already told you it was satisfactory.”

“Then what is the problem?” Atsumu asks, trying to understand.

“Well,” as if there are not a _million_ of them, “I don’t know if you’re _clean._ I don’t know if you have any STDs.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, eyes wide. “I got tested last month as part of the required team check up, rem’mber? I’m clean.”

A sudden surge of relief washes over Kiyoomi. However, he frowns. “But are you still?”

Atsumu sheepishly scratches his head, eyes on the floor. “I… kinda… didn’t have sex since a while before that…”

“Oh.”

Kiyoomi feels much more relieved, and although he is almost sure Atsumu wouldn’t lie to him about this, he still needs to ask. “Can I see the results?”

“Sure. They’re on my phone. I’ll send them to ya.”

In the quietude that follows while Atsumu taps at his phone and lights up Kiyoomi’s with a soft _ding,_ Kiyoomi lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He then looks at Atsumu, waiting for him to speak. The tension is awkward and Kiyoomi honestly just wants to be left alone with his thoughts.

Atsumu looks at his hand and changes the subject. “Did you take your bandages off?”

Looking at the said swollen hand, Kiyoomi sighs. “Yes. It needs to be creamed and re–bandaged.”

“Okay, let’s do that, and then I need to head to practice,” Atsumu says.

“I can do it myself.”

“I’d love to see ya try, but I won’t,” Atsumu says, standing up. “I’m not leaving until yer properly bandaged.”

Kiyoomi blinks. This _fucker._

He leaves the living room to fetch the necessities, sulking. He hears the shuffling as Atsumu does something in the kitchen, the fridge door opening and shutting, and he wonders why it doesn’t feel weird at all to have him in the house now, when he’s so used to living alone.

Must be the fact that Atsumu showered. Twice.

He returns to the kitchen, where Atsumu is staring out of the window. He puts the items onto the center counter, and Atsumu turns when he hears him.

“You have a pretty view, Omi–omi.”

“Thank you.”

Then Atsumu sits down next to him, already with an ice pack. He takes the cream from the counter, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers.

“Washed my hands, don’t worry,” he says absent–mindedly, focused on inspecting Kiyoomi’s hand. He touches it, feather light, with his fingertips and trails his knuckles. His expression is grim, eyes soft.

He then starts to spread the cream as softly as he can, pursing his lips when Kiyoomi winces, and Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu’s palm supporting his hand from under. He closes his eyes for a second to focus on the warmth of the hand. He feels the internal anxious tug, the tender and beautiful ache in his chest and the conflict in between. He wants to bask in this light. He also knows he shouldn’t.

All this internal conflict goes unnoticed and unaddressed. Kiyoomi keeps watching what's in front of him. Atsumu is leaning over the counter to take the bandages. His arm extends close to Kiyoomi’s face, and he can smell the shower gel on his skin. He watches as the shoulder flexes and then relaxes.

Atsumu carefully lowers Kiyoomi’s hand onto his lap while unwrapping the material. He tosses the wrapper onto the counter, holding Kiyoomi’s forearm lightly and slowly brushing his hand lower until he touches his hand again. He slowly, carefully wraps the fingers and the palm; forehead creased, tugging here and there to make sure it’s not too loose or not too tight. When he’s finished, he takes the ice pack and presses it kindly onto the bandages.

“You can hold it here.”

“Thank you, Miya.” Kiyoomi says, offering a small smile.

Atsumu hums to himself as he collects the packages, looks around the kitchen and turns to Kiyoomi with a question forming in his mouth, only to find him still smiling. Atsumu’s expression freezes for a second, staring at Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi feels his face tighten and a frown forming, but then Atsumu smiles so bright, so warm that Kiyoomi relaxes and lifts a brow.

“As cute as I remember it to be, ya should do it more often. Will make people less afraid of ya,” Atsumu says offhandedly, standing to find the trash can.

“What?” Kiyoomi asks, confused.

“Yer smile.”

Kiyoomi frowns for a second, then the words tumble out of his mouth in a desperate need to change the subject.

“Exactly how flexible are you?”

Atsumu turns around with a snarky grin. “Is someone impressed?”

“You were carrying me, a professional athlete, and still could lift your leg enough to open the door, Miya. Who wouldn’t be impressed?”

Atsumu laughs. It’s loud, energetic and it almost makes Kiyoomi’s lips curl.

“It’s a twin thing, I guess. I always had to carry Samu to bed when he fell asleep on the couch.”

“I see.”

Then Atsumu discards the wrappers and heads to the guest bathroom, only to turn back and ask Kiyoomi, “By the way, were ya smoking?”

He is slightly surprised that Atsumu noticed, just awakened from his deep sleep, but to be honest Kiyoomi’s not going to take any criticism about it. He knows it’s wrong, and knowing this raises a sudden feeling of shame inside him, but smoking also relaxes him, and it’s his one moment where he doesn’t think about the consequences of his actions, the one thing he doesn’t sanitize before using. He doesn’t do it all the time anyways, and Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t want one more single person in his life to judge him for his own life choices. Not anymore.

Sakusa Kiyoomi also finds it easy to answer direct questions, no matter how uncomfortable.

“Yes.”

“How long have ya been smokin’? It’s bad for ya.”

“I know, Miya.” Kiyoomi glares at him. “I don’t smoke regularly. Only on special occasions or specific days.” _When I’m troubled._

“Oh, okay,” Atsumu says, ending the conversation and entering the guest bathroom.

When he reemerges, he smells fresh and clean. Kiyoomi is sitting on the kitchen stool and having another cup of coffee, looking up offhandedly as Atsumu comes in, towel around his waist, and Kiyoomi finds himself staring a little more intensely than he intends. The damp dirty blond hair looks somehow better than the way it looks when it’s dry, the scratch marks on his back glisten under droplets of water.

 _You wanna see him wet, I see,_ says the mischievous voice inside him. It sounds suspiciously like Atsumu.

Kiyoomi doesn’t acknowledge the internal comment, but he allows his gaze to linger on the setter, himself unseen. He would look good in front of him in the shower. Kiyoomi looks away and clears his throat.

Atsumu disappears, and Kiyoomi can hear him collecting his bag and zipping it. “Hey, Omi–omi, are there any spare clothin’ ya have? All of mine are dirty.”

He gets off from the chair and makes his way to the bedroom. Atsumu is standing there, holding his sweatpants.

“Here.” Kiyoomi gives him loose sweatpants and a t–shirt from a drawer that is mostly empty aside from the comfy clothing Kiyoomi saves for himself when he’s at home and won’t be seeing anyone else. Atsumu nods, and Kiyoomi enters the ensuite to use the restroom.

When he exits, he hears the front door opening as he looks at the mess of his room. The bedsheet is peeled away and absent, just like the comforter and the pillowcases. And there are Atsumu’s clothes on the floor, the tank top and the sweatpants.

“Peeled the sheets and shoved them into the washing machine since you’d have a hard time doin’ it yerself,” Atsumu calls from the hallway. Kiyoomi walks towards the door to find Atsumu putting his shoes on. “They were all white so I figured it’d be safe to wash ‘em all together."

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Kiyoomi says as Atsumu steps out of the house.

“Ah, yes!” Atsumu’s eyes sparkle. “Next time, just tell me yer kinks beforehand.”

_Next time._

Kiyoomi recovers from speechlessness in a second, a furious blush crawling from his neck. “I meant your pajamas, Miya!”

Atsumu waves a hand in the air.

“They can stay – you can sleep wearing them!” he says with a pompous laugh, and heads off without giving Kiyoomi enough time to respond.

✵

Atsumu can say that he’s having a good day.

He’s feeling strong, energetic and something positive is bubbling inside him, something akin to excitement.

To think about last night excites him. And he feels relief, because he’s keeping his promise to himself that he’ll look after the man. _Until he heals,_ his inner critic says. Fine, whatever. Until he heals.

Deep down, under all the excitement and happiness, he also feels stupid. Because he should have told Sakusa he was clean sooner, _before_ they actually had sex. He was drunk, though. But he was sober enough to ask the man if he was sure. Then he should have been sober enough to tell him that it was safe. Ugh. Sakusa probably freaked out in the morning. He doesn’t know how long he slept after the other man awoke, too. His heart clenches at the thought of Sakusa worriedly chain smoking. He shakes his head as Bokuto throws him a ball.

To annoy him, on the other hand, is something that gets Atsumu off and he quickly gets distracted by that thought. It was always fun to poke on the sides of an annoyed Omi-omi in practice, but being able to do it in the man’s own house, on such an intimate level, sends sparks of joy throughout Atsumu’s body, satisfying his good-willed need to bully someone constantly. _The look on his face when I said “you can sleep with them”._ He snickers while setting the ball to Bokuto.

It was a great night, and it was a fine morning. At least that tense conversation is done and gotten over with.

He feels _rad._

Practice itself feels quieter than usual, but incredibly fun today. Not that it could get any louder physically, since Bokuto and Hinata seem to be having an exceptional day as well. _But,_ Atsumu thinks, _it’s weird to not have a pair of black eyes waiting for a ball._

Bokuto is on fire today, and Atsumu can feel that the spiker is appreciating his sets as much as he appreciates himself.

“Hey hey HEY!” Bokuto goes, fists clenching and a blinding smile across his face.

“Bokuto–san, nice kill!” Hinata yells, jumping up and down.

“Thank you Shoyo! I’m on a _roll_ today, and to top it off, ‘Kaashi is here and will pick me up from training!” The golden owlish eyes sparkle.

 _Oh,_ Atsumu thinks. _That explains it._

“Someone’s havin’ a good time,” Atsumu says cheekily, letting the high levels of energy enhance his own further.

“Well, Tsum–Tsum, seems like someone had a good time before I even started!” Bokuto exclaims, pointing at Atsumu’s neck. “What kind of animal did that to you?”

“Seriously,” Hinata interrupts with glee. “Even Kageyama doesn’t bruise that much, and he always–”

“Guys,” Meian goes. “As much as I’d love you to talk freely and inappropriately in the middle of practice, the drills aren’t over.”

Atsumu silently thanks Meian for saving him from the friendly interrogation, and keeps tossing the ball, receiving winks from Bokuto occasionally.

 _What kind of animal did that to me?_ he thinks with amusement. _You wouldn’t believe me if I told you._

✵

The locker room goes all the same, although Atsumu is now more cornered than he has been all day. When he takes his shirt off, facing his locker, he hears Bokuto barking with laughter after a loud whistle.

“Damn, this dude had the night of his life! Look at his back. Oh my god.”

Atsumu can hear Hinata giggle behind the whistles of Tomas and Barnes, friendly and not a bit phased from the intense training they had. “Can’t wait to get Kageyama soon. These make me a bit jealous, Bokuto–san.”

“You need to see me tomorrow after I spend tonight at Akaashi’s hotel room,” Bokuto woos.

“Ew,” Atsumu says, lighthearted. “I’m gonna get cavities.”

“Why, Tsum Tsum?” Bokuto widens his owlish eyes, and brings a hand to his chest. “Is it because you don’t want to share the fun with other people? Fine! We’ll have our own.”

Atsumu laughs alongside Hinata, his skin now dried, and wears a new t–shirt. He packs up his own bag, and taps at his phone, smiling.

“Oi! How’s Kiyoomi–san doing, do you know?” Tomas asks, muffled, as he removes his jersey.

Atsumu pauses for a second, suddenly warm… and cozy. “I think he’s doin’ well, although I haven’t seen him since yesterday’s practice.”

“Might give him a call today,” Tomas says. “Hinata, Bokuto, you wanna join?”

“Sure!” Hinata says cheerfully as Bokuto agrees with a nod.

✵

Atsumu waves at Akaashi and Bokuto and walks over to the parking lot with Hinata. He hears Hinata babbling on and on about how Kageyama is going to fly over next weekend to see him, and how he got this whole plan of taking Kageyama out to dinner, and how he arranged the ring that goes so well with Kageyama’s ocean eyes –

“Hold on,” Atsumu says. “You’re going to _propose?_ Next _week_?”

“Have you been listening?” Hinata goes, annoyed for a second but then with eyes sparkling. “YES! I know I’ve been talking a lot about this, but I decided I can’t wait until he moves back to Tokyo, and then he suddenly told me he wanted to visit and I decided it was time–”

Atsumu listens with a soft smile at how Hinata feels like he shouldn’t delay this any further, because “the time I have with him is so precious that I don’t want any of that spent with us not formally belonging to each other”.

Atsumu finally says, “I’m so happy for you guys, Hinata,” and pulls Hinata into a warm hug. Hinata hugs him equally forcefully, and when they separate he exclaims “Drinks on me if he says yes!!!”

“Ya idiot, of course he’s gonna say yes,” Atsumu grumbles with a smile.

“I hope so,” Hinata sighs. But he is happy. Atsumu can see that.

“Lemme know if anythin’ happens!” Atsumu says, the love he feels for his friend shining through his face.

He’s never thought much about the whole ‘forever’ thing, but these two feel like they’ve been married for _years_ now. There had been numerous incidents of FaceTime calls in the locker room when they were changing, Hinata showing the half naked men more than once by clicking on the wrong button. There had been _one time_ when Kageyama’s voice sounded rough and husky, and Hinata blushed so hard and scurried out with the phone in his hand. Atsumu didn’t want to know what was happening there. He really didn’t.

Despite that, he is happy that these two dorks are finally taking another step in their lives. Atsumu doesn’t care much about marriage. It’s not like a legal document of marriage can bring you closer with a person anyways – he knows that personally, from his own family. He is happy, because this is something big for Hinata and Kageyama and they are ready for it. He wants them to be happy, too.

About himself, he thinks, he might find that person or not. He doesn't know, and it’s not like he will worry about this. What will happen will happen. It’s sheer luck to find that person, and the rest is in his own hands.

He waves one last time, and walks towards his car.

✵

Atsumu’s phone rings as he drives, and the screen flashes with a photo of sleeping Osamu with drool on his chin and Atsumu giving him rabbit ears with two fingers. He smirks and picks up. The car echoes with Samu’s background noise.

“Samu! How ya doin?”

“Tsumu.” Osamu shuffles something in the background. “No, that will go to the kitchen!”

“Still gettin’ into the new shop, arentcha?” Atsumu says, a warm smile crossing his face that makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle. “‘m proud of ya.”

“Thanks,” Osamu laughs. “Say, bro, who are ya fuckin?”

Atsumu chokes on his own spit. In a coughing fit, he tries to keep his eyes on the road. “Where the fuck did _that_ come from, ya nitwit?”

“Well,” Osamu says, humour apparent in his voice. “Ya haven’t looked at my texts since like, yesterday mornin’ after you told me you hurt Sakusa’s hand. And now yer all cheerful.”

Atsumu stares at the road. “Tell me ya won’t get mad and I’ll tell ya.”

“What can… hold on,” Osamu says as realization dawns upon him. “Tell me it’s not what ‘m thinkin’.”

“Whatcha thinkin?”

“Tell me ya didn’t fuck Sakusa.”

Atsumu bites his lip, silently laughing, giving a signal and turning left.

“Tsumu.”

“What?” Atsumu says defensively, although lighthearted.

“Tsumu, this is a _bad_ idea, bro.”

“It didn’t happen that way,” Atsumu says.

“To be honest, Tsumu, it doesn’t matter what way it happened,” Osamu replies, now his full focus on his big brother. “Ya have feelings for that guy. Don’t do it.”

“WHAT?” Atsumu almost brings the car to a halt to not crash into someone else. “What the _fuck,_ Samu?”

“Yeah well, good mornin’,” Osamu says. “It’s been all over the place, like, since the guy joined the team. Ya go ‘the stars look pretty’ and I can tell ya thinkin’ bout Sakusa’s eyes.”

“No,” is all Atsumu can say, staring right ahead. “No, Samu.”

“Yes, Tsumu.”

“No, ya ridiculous.”

“Can’t refuse what’s already happened though.”

“Samu,” Atsumu warns him, shaking his head in denial.

“S’okay, Tsumu,” Osamu says kindly, trying not to hurt him more. “Just don’t fuck him again.”

“Why not?” Atsumu groans. “It’s not like I’ll catch feelings.”

“Tsumu, whatcha don’t understand is, ya don’t need to catch feelings. Ya already have ‘em.”

“I don’t,” Atsumu says, stubborn.

“Fine.” Osamu says, annoyed. “Just don’t fuck him.”

“Ugh,” Atsumu says, and reaches over the console to hang up the phone.

“Just don’t call me whinin’ when ya–” And the car beeps to let him know the conversation is over.

Well, that was an unnecessary and pointless argument.

Sure, he likes Sakusa. The way he likes Hinata and Bokuto. He would do the same thing for them too, if he had hurt them as well. Although Bokuto has Akaashi–san, and Hinata has Kageyama. But still, he would do his best to repair the damage. The only difference would be that he wouldn’t have sex with them, of course, but let’s be honest, Sakusa was willing as much as Atsumu was. The sexual tension was real, and both of them were aware of this. It was just that getting triggered by the fact that they were alone, and nothing else.

He doesn’t have feelings for Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’s just doing it because it would not let him sleep at night to know that he hurt someone’s hand and that someone cannot live like they usually do because of him. He is helping Sakusa until he heals, and why not have fun in the time they have together? Then they can go back to their normal lives.

He’s going to do his absolute best at repairing the damage, though.

A smile plays on his lips, and he enters the parking lot.

✵

Atsumu is having a _good time._

He meets with Suna and Osamu for drinks, Osamu in town for a few days to settle his new shop and Suna just…. what is Suna doing there anyway?

“I couldn’t leave my boyfriend alone,” Suna winks at him.

Atsumu rolls his eyes, and opens his mouth to snap about how disgusting they are, only to be interrupted by Osamu’s stare.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, dumbass?”

“I’m lookin’ at how _whipped_ ya are,” Osamu replies with eyes flashing. “Will ya even bother to stop checkin’ ya phone? He is _not_ gonna text!”

“Oh _shut up,”_ Atsumu retorts, feeling the buzz of alcohol on his face. “As if yer not _whipped,”_ he imitates.

“Well, I had the balls to actually talk ta him and _date_ him, you himbo,” Osamu hisses.

“Guys, who is _‘he’?”_

Two answers come at once, “Nobody!” and “Sakusa”.

Suna looks at Atsumu, incredulous. “You’re whipped for _Sakusa Kiyoomi?”_

“No am not!” Atsumu objects, hand slapping the table. A couple of people from nearby booths look at them. “Jesus fuck, let a guy have no-strings sex, will ya?”

Osamu scoffs. Atsumu glares at him.

Suna clears his throat and calmly speaks. “I put 1000 Yen that his feelings are not requited.”

“Sunarin I swear to god-”

“I put 3000 that they’re not requited, _and_ Sakusa kicks his ass.”

“Fuck,” Atsumu puts his head into his hands. “I. Don’t. Have. Feelings.”

“Sure,” they say unanimously.

Suna places his head on Osamu’s shoulder, intertwining their fingers. “I’m tired.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel, then,” Osamu says, kissing Suna’s head.

“Disgusting,” Atsumu groans.

Osamu shoots him a look.

✵

Kiyoomi taps patiently at his laptop while waiting.

“Hello Kiyoomi!” The voice is a bit distorted, and the screen freezes at Motoya waving to him.

“Hello, Motoya,” Kiyoomi replies.

“So!” The screen regains its fluidity, and so do Motoya’s motions. “What happened?”

“I injured my hand,” Kiyoomi says plainly. “I was blocking, and I ruptured my palm with two dislocations on my fourth and fifth.”

“Oh god,” Motoya says. “Will you survive this?”

“Stop joking around,” Kiyoomi says snidely. “I can’t play for three weeks.”

“Aah, you’ll be _fine.”_ Motoya waves his hand. “You needed a break anyways.”

“We have upcoming matches in a month,” Kiyoomi objects quietly. “I should be there.”

“You’ll be there when you actually _should_ be there, so,” Motoya dismisses the thought. “Let’s drink! This is something to drink for.”

“Anything is something to drink for you, Motoya,” Kiyoomi deadpans.

“Yeah, sure. You don’t have to kill my buzz though. Do you have tequila?”

Kiyoomi shifts on his chair, fingers tapping on his dining table. “I think so.”

“Then take it out, because I am promising _fun,”_ Motoya laughs mischievously.

Kiyoomi feels, for the first time since yesterday morning, relieved. Motoya is familiar, safe and known.

Kiyoomi pushes the chair with the back of his knees and proceeds to take out a shot glass and the bottle of tequila, not opened and full.

“Alright. This is the movie, and here are the rules,” Motoya says, typing something and sending it to him.

Kiyoomi raises a brow. A movie and a drinking game? What is this, high school?

“Don’t look at me like that, Kiyoomi! It’s going to be fuuuunnnn,” Motoya woos.

Kiyoomi sighs, and looks at the text.

**Drink every time:**

  * Edward casts a crooked smile
  * Bella touches her hair or bites her lip
  * Mike calls Bella "Arizona"
  * Bella trips (2x if Edward catches her)
  * Someone says "Monkey"



**Drink 2x when:**

  * Charlie is noticeably uncomfortable
  * Edward & Bella silently gaze into each other’s eyes
  * A vampire hisses
  * The Volturi kill someone



“Okay, this should be easy,” Kiyoomi says. “Isn’t this the movie about vampires?”

“Yeah, _Twilight,”_ Motoya cackles. “I’ll see your confidence in half an hour.”

✵

In forty-five minutes, Kiyoomi has to give Motoya the credit because he’s already tipsy and the movie is ridiculously… ridiculous. It’s almost comforting with the consistency of colors and the clichés all around.

“I love this movie,” Motoya says as both of them raise their shot glasses at Charlie, clearly uncomfortably cleaning his gun before meeting Edward.

Kiyoomi feels the liquid burn his throat, and brings one hand to his nose while screwing his eyes shut. “God, that feels good.”

“Told ya!” Motoya exclaims, already bubbly and way too happy. Kiyoomi lets out a relaxed smile.

The doorbell rings.

“Ooh, you have company!” Motoya points out with giggles. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at him, but frowns as he stands up. It’s almost ten.

He opens the door to an Atsumu that reeks of beer.

Kiyoomi just stares at him. Atsumu stares back, a grin widening impossibly on his face.

“Who is it?” Motoya yells from inside, and Atsumu cranes his neck to be able to see the living room. Kiyoomi places his hand on the doorframe to stop him.

“Ya not gonna let me in?” Atsumu asks smugly.

“What are you doing here?” Kiyoomi tries to keep his voice even, but the alcohol is slipping into his blood and his voice leaves him much softer than he intends.

Atsumu raises his hand to display a paper bag. “I brought food.”

Kiyoomi extends his hand.

Atsumu grins wider. “Not until ya let me in.”

“Kiyoomi, who _is_ it?” Motoya yells again from inside. “Should I call the cops?”

“Is that… Komori?” Atsumu asks, interested. “It’s me, Miya Atsumu!” he yells to the living room.

“Oh,” Motoya yells back. “Come on in!”

“Don’t,” Kiyoomi hisses.

“Aww, come on Omi-omi,” Atsumu coos, not slightly deterred. “I needta seeya eat it, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Since when do you practice benevolence or altruism, Miya?”

“I’m a good person, y’know,” Atsumu says with a grin. “Why dontcha let me in so I can show it to ya?”

“No.”

Kiyoomi slams the door to Atsumu’s face, and returns to the living room with no shame and full fury.

“Where is Miya?” Motoya asks innocently. As if Kiyoomi would believe him.

“Don’t invite people to _my_ house,” Kiyoomi hisses.

“OhmygodKiyoomi you are _such_ a buzzkill,” Motoya replies, rolling his eyes. “I’m not resuming this movie until Miya joins us.”

The doorbell rings.

“I think he wants to join, too,” Motoya adds with a flashy smile, way too saccharine.

Kiyoomi stares at the computer screen.

The doorbell rings again, this time more insistent.

He grits his teeth.

He glares at the screen once more, and makes his way to the door to open it. “What?”

“Let me in, Omi-omi,” Atsumu sing-songs.

Kiyoomi squints. “Are you drunk?”

Atsumu laughs out loud. “No, I just had a few drinks with ‘Samu and Suna. I’m good.”

Kiyoomi stares at him.

Motoya yells. “Let him IN!”

Kiyoomi makes a mental note to murder his cousin someday soon, but widens the door so Atsumu can step in, and walks towards the living room. Atsumu’s eyes flash with something akin to joy, and he takes his shoes off efficiently and hops inside, shutting the door.

He practically yells “Hey Komori!” while entering the living room. Kiyoomi turns to him in his seat with a frown.

“Keep it down.”

“Oh, sorry,” Atsumu whispers. “Hey, Komori!”

“Hey, Miya!” Komori whispers back. They simultaneously burst into giggles.

Kiyoomi stares at the dining table, contemplating what he did wrong to end up like this.

✵

“God this is so _stupid,”_ Kiyoomi groans.

“What?” Motoya asks, pausing the movie.

“Listen,” Kiyoomi goes. Almost a quarter of the tequila is left now, and he is slurring while Atsumu puts his chin onto his palm and looks at him sideways. “This is _ridiculous._ Bella was literally standing on her feet when the car came towards her. There is _nothing_ for her to slip on, and yet, we have her on the floor and we have _Edward_ to hold her because it _has_ to be saccharine and cliché, and-” he stops for a breath, and then lets it out with an exasperated huff. “She has _nothing_ to slip on. She’s _standing.”_

Motoya looks at Atsumu, and Atsumu looks back at him. Then they explosively laugh together, forming a chorus, and Kiyoomi furrows his brows in confusion. “What’s funny?”

“Ah, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, holding his stomach.

“Omi-omi, who _knew_ you could feel so _intensely_ about something?” Atsumu asks, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Kiyoomi hisses, and stands up to go to the restroom.

“Don’t slip on your way there!” Motoya yells from his back.

“Yeah, we don’t have a Cullen around, Arizona,” Atsumu adds, and Kiyoomi can practically see them high-fiving each other through the screen.

When Kiyoomi returns, Atsumu has his chin on both palms and is talking excitedly about the upcoming matches against Adlers. Motoya exclaims with some response, and Atsumu laughs all free and joyful.

Kiyoomi grumbles as he sits down. “Let’s finish this goddamn thing.”

“Oh, yer drunk alreadyyy,” Atsumu snickers, slurring himself.

“No, I’m not,” Kiyoomi retorts. “But you are.”

“Nope,” Atsumu says after a hiccup. “Sober as a horse.”

“Is that even a saying?” Motoya asks from the screen.

“It now is,” Atsumu says, and Motoya laughs, drunk and freewheeling.

“You can’t even hold your liquor,” Kiyoomi says matter-of-factly.

Atsumu’s eyes shine mischievously and he raises his shot glass, almost daring. “Don’t make me drink the rest of the bottle on my own just out of spite, Sakusa.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Kiyoomi leans in, licking his lips as if he can taste the electricity between them.

“Only if I can lick the salt from your neck,” Atsumu retorts, raising a brow.

Motoya groans and lets out a half-disgusted, half-amused sound.

“Gross, Miya.” Kiyoomi scrunches his nose.

“Can’t tell me yer not turned on tho, Omi-omi,” Atsumu snickers, the tension in his eyes gone.

“Guys, get a room,” Motoya protests. “I feel like I’m interrupting something. Your sexual tension is making me itch.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kiyoomi replies.

“Make me,” Atsumu and Motoya say at the same time, and there is only an instant of their eyes meeting before they lose it with booming laughter.

Kiyoomi drunkenly lifts his eyes to the ceiling and sighs, one hand rubbing his forehead.

He did _not_ deserve this.

“Alright, I’m playing the movie again and it’s about to end, but Kiyoomi, don’t lose your shit again,” Motoya says pleasantly after regaining his breath.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, and he cannot stop the words from spilling out with venom. “But she had _nothing_ to slip on.”

Atsumu cackles, and Motoya puts his head into his hands as he shakes with laughter. Then he presses play.

✵

“What the _fuck,”_ Kiyoomi murmurs. “Did she just go there thinking she could save everyone?”

“She be dumb like that,” Motoya slurs from the screen, smiling stupidly. “It’s Bella Swan, everyone.”

“ _Isa_ bella _Marie_ Swan, excuse you,” Atsumu says indignantly. “Soon-to-be Cullen, too.”

“She is so stupid,” Kiyoomi says, almost in awe. “I feel so sorry for Charlie.”

“Same, right?!” Motoya exclaims. “He is seriously the _only_ person in this movie who is like, a decent human being.”

“There is no Team Edward or Team Jacob in this house, we only stan Charlie Swan,” Atsumu adds, completely serious.

“Amen, brother,” Motoya says reverently.

“Just wait until Arizona gets pomegranate,” Atsumu chortles.

Motoya howls with laughter. “Charlie will _lose it_ when Bells is pregonate!”

“Can’t wait to see her _pregenante,”_ Atsumu replies with this terrible, terrible Italian accent.

Kiyoomi can swear someone in Italy wakes up in cold sweat at that very moment.

They watch Bella get rescued and when they dance awkwardly with Edward, Motoya raises his shot glass and says, “This is the last one, I promise.”

“Thank god,” Kiyoomi replies with relief.

“Lightweight?” The impudent grin is back on Atsumu’s face.

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi murmurs.

They do their shots, and Motoya waves them goodbye after almost falling asleep on his laptop. Kiyoomi feels a slight smile tugging at his lips, and turns the device off.

“Oh m’god, that was a lot of tequila,” Atsumu says, standing up, needing to hold the table to find his balance.

“Can’t hold your liquor, Miya?” Kiyoomi says, burlesque.

“First of all,” Atsumu holds his head, as if that will help the spinning. “Don’t call me that. It reminds me of fucking ‘Samu, and I don’t want to remember him and his disgustingly sweet relationship.”

Kiyoomi raises a brow.

“Secondly,” Atsumu says, one hand hanging in the air. He blinks. “Fuck, I forgot.”

Then he staggers towards the sofa and crashes onto it.

Kiyoomi feels lighthearted, but he also feels lightheaded. He makes a sound between a sigh and a laugh, and hardly walks the short distance between his chair and the sofa to crash onto the other end.

They stare at the ceiling for a while, no words spoken. Kiyoomi just enjoys the feeling of spinning and his gaze swimming, and stares until he sees shadows of the trees, dancing under street lamps on the white walls.

Atsumu breaks the silence.

“Shit… I forgot… you were s’posed to eat.”

“I already ate, Miya.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fine.”

After another silence that comfortably stretches forever, Atsumu speaks again. “But the umeboshi onigiri is _really_ good. I tasted them myself.”

Sakusa feels a lazy smile work across his face. “Umeboshi?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

✵

“Omi.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll wake up dead if we sleep here,” Atsumu slurs.

Kiyoomi groans. “Can’t go to bed.”

“We needta.”

“Can’t.”

“Omi, _come on,”_ Atsumu says sleepily. He yawns. “We… needta.”

Kiyoomi groans again and attempts to sit upright.

Woah. Everything is still spinning.

He doesn’t know how or when Atsumu stands up, but before he knows two hands are gently helping him to stand and taking him to his bedroom, and they both stumble onto the bed.

“Is yer stomach okay?” A voice asks.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi replies, stifling a yawn.

“Okay. Where was the guest bedroom again?”

Kiyoomi grumbles something inaudible, and Atsumu frowns. “What?”

“Just stop talking for a minute,” Kiyoomi groans.

Atsumu falls silent, and it only takes a few hazy minutes for them to pass out.

✵

At some point in the night, the warmth that surrounds Kiyoomi is so comfortable that he doesn’t even open his eyes despite being awake for fleeting moments. There’s a throbbing behind his eyes, but in the heavy haze of the softness enveloping him and the comfort of being warm and safe, he wiggles further into the warmth and drifts away again.

✵

Atsumu wakes up with a warm body next to him. His arms tighten around it imperceptibly, and he snuggles into it, nuzzling a neck. When the herbal smell of sage and lemons with a hint of alcohol reaches him, he frowns quietly at the familiarity, then his eyes shoot open to see dark locks of hair resting on pale skin. His heart swells with affection, and he is suddenly flooded by the feeling that everything is in its right place.

Oh.

Atsumu freezes, and only remembers to breathe when his lungs burn, and the herbal smells surround him again instantly, mercilessly.

He slowly withdraws from Sakusa’s neck, and feels Sakusa writhe back into him. Atsumu’s arms tighten almost as a reflex. He stares at the black curls in front of him, splayed on the blinding white pillows, and tries to ignore the knot in his stomach.

Crap.

This is it.

This is what he wants to wake up to.

He wants to get used to sage, mint and lemon; he wants to get used to this warm weight in his arms, trying to get closer to him; the hand on his hip, resting calmly, the regulated breaths and the vulnerable, relaxed face. He wants to get used to the way the curly hair tickles his chin. He wants to wake him up while nuzzling his neck, and this to be a loved routine among them.

Fuck, he has feelings for Sakusa Kiyoomi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me much longer than expected, because i felt the need to re-do some of the parts i’ve already finished. let’s hope i can stay stable for once in my life and resume in a rhythmic manner!  
> anyone want to scream at me about this, you’re welcome to scream at me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/mamabrainrot)
> 
> i promise i don't bite. well, i do, as a kink, but i'm offensively friendly, so. come, come!


	3. play pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come here,” Atsumu coos, so soft that it’s threatening, and he hops off from the counter. “Come here, ya little sheep.”
> 
> “Atsumu, stop being creepy.” Another step back.
> 
> “I’ll fucking showya creepy!” And Atsumu attacks him as Sakusa escapes him with a yelp, and they form circles while they run around the isle in the middle. 
> 
> “Stop it! We’re _adults!”_ Sakusa almost yells at him, the white powder on his face smearing across the back of his hand when he tries to wipe it off.
> 
> “Ya could’ve thought about that before you did this,” Atsumu motions at his own face threateningly, and dashes from the left side, finally managing to grab the hem of Sakusa’s sweater. Sakusa fruitlessly tries to escape, but to no avail: Atsumu’s fingers dig into his stomach, pulling him while they catastrophically tumble onto the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello, if it isn't our newest update!! 
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS TO THE ONES WHO CELEBRATE IT! 
> 
> life has been hectic lately. i just got out of the last of exams yesterday so my mind is a little muddy, but i hope you like it, and if you do, please do comment so that i know my strengths and weaknesses better, and either revel in them or work on them. 
> 
> thank you!
> 
> also, there are smexy times happening during this scene. for that, i humbly introduce you again to my sakuatsu thirst playlist. 
> 
> [for playlist link, click here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4wFhhOdZCTsNwXMCyHvZXb?si=hfKjz4SIRgKE1hFD%E2%80%93giNlw)
> 
> and because all my wonderful friends were too busy with their lives, this is kinda not beta'ed. so here is the tag i was waiting impatiently to use: no beta we die like men. KJSDGKAJDF
> 
> let's goooo!!

Atsumu relishes the warmth of the sleeping man in his arms; watches how his chest rises and falls rhythmically with ease, how the pulse is visible under his marked neck, how his warm, bandaged hand is coiled over Atsumu’s wrist. He inhales deep breaths of him, soft hints of flowers from black hair, the scents of hot and hazy summer harvest on his neck. He feels so surrounded, so immersed in feeling Sakusa that he just doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to stop himself from kissing the man good morning, doesn’t want to let him wake up feeling not as loved as Atsumu could make him feel.

 _He doesn’t like you back,_ a voice whispers. _In fact, he would probably be disgusted by what you’re thinking right now if he knew._

Atsumu’s breath catches as the purity of the emotions gets corrupted by this sole reminder; dark branches of the fact that he is not only unrequited in his feelings but also probably despised by the man he feels them for - they surround and threaten to suffocate him.

Atsumu finds it really hard to not stare more, to not show a bit of the emotions blowing up inside him with gentle kisses peppered on the pale skin, to not _stay._ But the panic inside him starts stirring, and it’s only a matter of time until his hands start shaking. He silently detangles himself from the sleeping man beside him, careful not to wake him while withdrawing his arms. Sakusa shuffles and sighs in his sleep.

He tiptoes out of the room silently, and when he’s in the clear he almost sprints to the living room, where the bottle of tequila, the shot glasses and the laptop stare at him, all silent in their judgement. Atsumu doesn’t even have the power to squint at them, but silently thanks his athletic body and high metabolism for never allowing him intense hangovers. The dull ache in his head is easy to ignore.

He plops down onto the soft grey sofa, and brings his palms together, nose resting on top of his fingertips. He stares at the parquets, not registering what he’s seeing, and keeps staring with eyes wide when the panic inside him blows up.

_Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god oh my god I have feelings for him._

A part of his logical, calm mind suggests he takes this panic somewhere else. A sudden pain on his bottom lip jerks him fully awake, and he brings a finger to see that it’s bleeding from the unconscious worrying and biting. Fuck. Ow. Okay.

Atsumu presses a paper towel to his lip, and checks if he has forgotten anything. He was fully clothed in bed last night, so everything is on him: keys, wallet, phone.

He looks at the turn of the corridor, which leads to Sakusa’s bedroom. He stares, contemplating if he should tell him he’s leaving or not.

 _Don’t disgust him with your sentimentality,_ the sneering inner voice suggests. Atsumu reluctantly agrees. And maybe, just slightly, he doesn’t want to disturb a sleeping Sakusa. Or maybe, with even a slimmer chance, doesn’t want to see the indifference in the man’s eyes when he tells him he’s leaving.

Atsumu grunts, opens the front door and hurls himself outside.

He is not in the mood for driving, but he remembers he didn’t take the car last night because he had drunk. Fine. But before figuring anything out, he needs fresh air, so he finds himself walking towards the park across, and sits heavily on a wooden bench. He takes his phone out, and presses on the top name of his emergency call list.

“Why the _fuck_ areya callin’ me at 7 in the morn-”

“Samu,” Atsumu interrupts, voice shaking. “Samu, ya were right.”

“What?” Osamu croaks in disbelief. “Ya okay? Ya hit yer head?”

“Not in the mood for jokes,” Atsumu spits. “Ya… ya were right. I have feelings.”

The line buzzes silently for a couple of seconds.

“Where are ya?” Osamu’s voice sounds a bit soberer.

“At the park across Sakusa’s,” Atsumu replies. His panic is somewhat calming down, now that he’s heard his brother’s voice. It feels… less terrifying. Less catastrophic.

“Meet ya in yer flat in 45?”

“Okay. Okay. Sure,” Atsumu breathes, already standing up and walking towards the bus stop he saw earlier.

✵

He is fiddling with a cup of coffee he hasn’t touched when Osamu knocks on the door.

The relief almost knocks him off his feet when Osamu takes a step forward and sweeps him up in a bear hug, and Atsumu finds himself sighing into the embrace, brows furrowed, inhaling his brother’s soft support.

They separate, and Osamu looks at him. Atsumu stares back, golden eyes almost filling.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure it out. Didja have breakfast?”

“No, but I don’t feel li-”

“Eat, then we’ll talk.”

Atsumu takes the bag of food that’s been shoved into his chest as Osamu unties his shoes.

✵

He has his mouth full with fresh onigiri when Osamu speaks. “So, what happened?”

He swallows. “I went to bring him food last night… We slept together-”

“I _toldja_ to not fuck him again!” Osamu snaps.

“I didn’t fuck him Samu!!! We just slept together, like, in the literal sense, sharing the same bed-”

“Oh, okay,” Osamu replies, though still cautious.

Atsumu tries to ease the frown on his face. He swallows once more. “I woke up first and… and… it was….” His throat threatens to clench, and he inhales carefully. “I have feelings.”

“Yer deep, too,” Osamu observes.

“I am,” Atsumu groans, putting down the onigiri. “The first thing I thought was how beautiful he was… and nothin’ sexual at all. I jus’wanted to kiss him…. good mornin’.”

_“Shit.”_

“Yep. Shit.”

Neither of them talk for a long while.

✵

“So…” Osamu thinks out loud. “He’s not interested inya, is he?”

“Definitely not,” Atsumu says without hesitation, although there is no point in denying the tightening in his chest. He flexes his arms backward in an attempt to physically open up his chest, to be able to breathe deep.

“What about talking to him?”

“No,” Atsumu refuses immediately and definitely. “It’ll only make things worse. He hates it when people get close, or whatever. I bet he was disgusted by the thought of even fallin’ asleep together. He doesn’t _like_ me, Samu.”

“Then why did he fuck ya?” Osamu asks, clear and direct. Atsumu does his best to not flinch.

“I think he finds me hot,” he murmurs, his voice cracking.

If someone had told 17-year-old Miya Atsumu that he would one day say these words with such sadness, he would have laughed his ass off at them.

“But that’s all there is,” he continues, swallowing. “He doesn’t react to compliments. Doesn’t want to get closer. Doesn’t want to do nothin’ with me. Just a fucktoy.”

“Tsumu,” Osamu objects. “Don’t go into the everything-happens-to-me and I-didn’t-deserve-it mode. Ya ain’t a victim. Calm down.”

“I’m not doin’ the victim thing!” Atsumu barks. “I just _don’t_ want to be his fuckbuddy and nothin’ more!”

Atsumu groans, his forehead banging on the table, hands wildly rumpling his hair, and suddenly lifts his head with tired eyes. “I don’t want to do this, Samu.”

“Then don’t,” Osamu replies easily. He leans back on the creaky chair, looks at the ceiling.

“But I have to go to his flat every day,” Atsumu whines. “He can’t cook. Can’t clean. I need to help.”

“If yer conscience is that heavy, pay for someone to go and cook for’im,” Osamu says with a wave of his hand.

“He would _hate_ havin’ a stranger in his house,” Atsumu counters.

“Are ya tryin’ to make him happy or make sure he stays alive?” Osamu asks, almost offensive.

“I don’t want him to hate me because I tried to help’im!” Atsumu slams his fist on the table. “I want him to be _fine_ with the help.”

“Fine. Then go.”

Atsumu looks at Osamu, surprised.

“But,” Osamu continues. “Don’t get too close, y’know. Don’t have sex. Whatever. Just reject him if he tries.”

Atsumu stays silent for a while, and then sighs. “Why?”

“It will only make ya feel worse if you end up having sex with someone you like and know they don’t like ya back,” Osamu says, almost soft.

Atsumu looks at him. They lock gazes.

Atsumu knows that Osamu is well aware of and familiar with what he’s going through right now, since he had a similar experience with Suna back when they were all high schoolers trying to figure shit out.

And Osamu would never do anything to hurt him. Not with something this serious, anyway.

Atsumu also knows that he’s the softer one between the two. He’s the one who cried when he found out that the cheerleader girl he liked slept with him only to be able to tell others about it. He’s the one who has been constantly lectured by Osamu to protect his self-respect and dignity, and not assess his self-value with sex.

And Atsumu knows, deep down, that if he isn’t loved, then he’ll feel used.

“Okay.” The word leaves Atsumu’s mouth with utter defeat, and he resists the urge to take his head into his hands and just… not exist. “What about… what do I do with these _feelings?”_

“I dunno,” Osamu mumbles. “Live them, I guess.”

“Not helpful.”

“I don’t know bro, maybe show him yer feelings in subtle ways?”

“Okay, that’s a no-go,” Atsumu says.

“Fine, then bury ‘em deep and never confront’em.”

“That sounds more like it.”

“I was _kiddin’!”_

“Ugh.”

✵

“Yer free today, I assume,” Osamu says a while after, as if the conversation never happened.

“Yeah.”

“Then come help me with the store. Will keep yer mind busy.”

Atsumu considers it for a second, then stands. “Yeah, okay. Let me shower real quick and we’ll leave together.”

“Okay.”

✵

Kiyoomi wakes up to a headache that’s worse than the one two days ago. He grumbles, opening his eyes to an empty room, and shuts them quickly when the light blinds him.

He staggers to the kitchen to take painkillers, and then trudges back to his bed. Only then he remembers that Atsumu was supposed to be here.

Oh. Maybe he left.

He drifts back into sleep restlessly.

✵

When Kiyoomi wakes up once again, this time without pain, he inhales deeply. He stretches in the bed, turning and cracking his joints, and sits up.

The house is empty, and there are no signs that indicate Atsumu was here other than the second shot glass. Kiyoomi tries not to give it much thought.

He then opens the fridge for breakfast, finding the umeboshi onigiri Atsumu has brought him. He withdraws the craft bag and tastes one, shutting his eyes and humming happily at the sour flavor.

After taking a hot, scolding bath, he considers the bed. He doesn’t remember if Atsumu slept with him, but the other pillow is crinkled and he figures he at least laid down. The sheets need to change.

Kiyoomi finds out that peeling the bedding and the covers are hard to do with one hand. He tries to do it with both, but the pain is just not worth it. He manages to get the bedsheet out and the pillowcases, but absolutely has no patience for the quilt cover so he leaves that for later, frustrated as he is.

He then manages to scoop up the fabrics, shoving them into the washing machine, and stops to breathe. He frowns at his right hand. The pain rolls in waves from his hand and clenches its bite in Kiyoomi’s stomach. He knows, from experience, that even though a limited area is damaged he is reacting to pain as a whole organism but this knowledge doesn’t make the whole ordeal less inconvenient.

Clicking his tongue in frustration he leaves the machine like that, with the annoying sense that a job is left incomplete clawing at the back of his mind. He flops down on the couch, and contemplates turning on the TV, then figures a book would do better.

He’s curled up on the couch under his fleece blanket, immersed in a Murakami book when the door knocks.

When he opens the door Atsumu is standing there, holding out a paper bag. “Food.”

“I can order for myself.”

Still, Kiyoomi takes the bag.

Atsumu ignores him completely, taking his shoes off and stepping inside the house. Kiyoomi doesn’t try to stop him, but asks. “Why are you here?”

“To help ya clean up,” Atsumu says, completely devoid of his usual tongue-in-cheek humor. He walks towards the guest bathroom, and Kiyoomi stares at his back, mildly curious about this sudden behavioral change.

✵

After washing his hands Atsumu wordlessly and successfully puts everything else, including the quilt cover, into the washing machine and leaves Sakusa to do what he wants to do with double-washing and pre-washing at 300 degrees or whatever. He checks the kitchen and finds it to be clean.

He sincerely hopes his gay panic is not showing. Or maybe he hopes it is showing, so that Sakusa would ask. But then nothing would work out. It’s best to conceal whatever he’s feeling, and not deal with rejection which is readily oozing from the beautiful man, now sitting on the couch. Atsumu finds it harder to breathe while looking at him.

Oh, he’s in _deep._

He opens the door without saying a word, and bends over to put his shoes on as Sakusa speaks with the same level of enthusiasm he might use to discuss how and why male seahorses give birth instead of the females. “Do you want to stay and have sex?”

Atsumu freezes, one finger in the heel of his shoe, and stares at the door next to him.

When he can breathe again and his chest doesn’t feel like crumbling upon itself, he stands and looks Sakusa in the eye. “No, thanks.”

He can swear he saw Sakusa frowning for a second, and he doesn’t know if the dark feeling of victory or the sobering ache in his chest is stronger. Sakusa looks at him, his expression impassive as always. “Is that no for today or no for all time?”

“No for all time.”

“Oh.” A brow raises gracefully.

“We’re teammates,” Atsumu explains, the tension of the conversation crawling inside his veins. “We were drunk, and it was a mistake.”

“You come around every single day,” Sakusa observes, still as calm as an oak tree. “It could be beneficial to engage in a no-strings relationship. It wouldn’t affect our teamwork.”

Atsumu just stares at him.

Then he leaves.

✵

The next time he visits, Sakusa doesn’t attempt anything, or doesn’t ask anything about their last conversation. Atsumu does the laundry, and tidies up the kitchen. He doesn’t bring Sakusa more food. He doesn’t buy him umeboshi. He doesn’t tell him he loves him.

The routine almost clicks into place: don’t show emotions, help, rebandage, leave. They almost do not speak when he’s in Sakusa’s flat for the next few days. Atsumu cannot bring himself to look the man in the eye, let alone strike a casual conversation with him. He just needs to wait until these three weeks are over, and then he can go back to his normal life.

And he almost manages to. Almost.

The tense but balanced cycle breaks on the first day of Atsumu doing a thorough cleaning of the whole flat, because it’s been almost 2 weeks since Sakusa’s last cleaning day - apparently Thursdays - and even Atsumu can sense the dust. Sakusa doesn’t ask him to vacuum the house for him, but Atsumu already knows he wouldn’t. He still takes it upon himself to do it.

So, he washes the dishes, does the laundry and dusts and vacuums the entire house. By the end of it his back hurts from bending over while vacuuming because cleaning clearly does not regard the form of cleaners, good or bad.

He flops down onto the sofa, feeling his lower back relax and ache, and stumbles upon the beginning of one of his favourite movies on TV. The voice has been buzzing as a pleasant background noise as he worked through the last couple of hours, but now he is actually invested; a comfortable smile finds its way onto his face, and he finds himself relaxing against the soft surface.

Sakusa emerges from his room a couple minutes later, maybe alerted by the lack of sound, maybe from pure curiosity. He tentatively sits down next to Atsumu and looks at him questioningly.

“It’s _The Ring,”_ Atsumu answers the unasked question, the beginning of the first real dialogue they might have in the last week. “I earned a treat, dontcha think?”

Sakusa doesn’t dignify his question with a response. “A horror movie?”

“Yeah. One of the best, too,” Atsumu boasts, as if it’s his production.

Sakusa doesn’t respond, but shifts into the corner away from Atsumu and his extended arms at the back of the sofa, and starts watching.

✵

It takes less than half an hour to figure out three things:

  1. Sakusa Kiyoomi is absolutely terrified of horror movies and it’s so adorable that Atsumu has to hide his face into his bicep to not show his smile.
  2. Sakusa Kiyoomi can shriek, proven during a jumpscare, and it’s one of the most endearing sounds Atsumu ever heard.
  3. Atsumu is enjoying the movie way more than he usually does.



As Atsumu watches Sakusa curl himself up in a ball, occupying as little space as possible, he feels a warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The vision is cute enough to distract Atsumu, and he extends his hand. “C’mere.”

Sakusa shoots him a look, and his gaze immediately draws itself back to the screen. He looks completely terrified, but also hypnotized.

As another scene unrolls and a figure crawls out from an old-fashioned television, Sakusa covers his face with his beautiful, slender hands and starts watching the movie from in between his fingers. Atsumu chuckles. “C’mere, Omi-kun. You’ll lose less years from yer life if ya at least feel someone close to ya.”

Sakusa wiggles, eyes still trained on the screen, hands still on his face, and drags the blanket and himself next to Atsumu. He looks like he does not pay attention to the way his body moves, or maybe it’s because he’s almost in hypnosis by the movie itself, but Atsumu finds it so endearing that his stomach does a silly thing and he takes a sudden, deep inhale. Is it normal that he feels like a warm campfire right now?

Sakusa flinches, looking at Atsumu.

“Nothin’, nothin’. There isn't anythin’ sudden for at least fifteen minutes,” Atsumu informs him.

Sakusa visibly relaxes, and Atsumu gently wraps the fleece blanket over the man’s shoulders, his body warmth seeping into Atsumu’s bones from the right side. He considers wrapping his arms around the man for a second and decides that he still wants his limbs intact, so he bites his tongue and doesn’t make a move.

This decision proves itself worthless in a couple of minutes when Sakusa shrieks _again_ at the view of a girl with long hair appearing and haunting people, and buries his face onto Atsumu’s chest, completely unaware. He wraps the blanket around himself so tight that Atsumu doubts he can breathe. Atsumu’s arm curls around him like an instinct, and the man doesn’t seem phased by it, so he feels the rumbling laughter escape him, like a sigh of relief. “Yer really frightened, huh.”

Holding him feels so _right._

Atsumu is so, _so_ fucked.

“Fuck you,” Sakusa hisses, but it’s so weak, so muffled and so distracted that it sounds like a lion cub trying to roar. Atsumu throws his head back and keeps laughing, anxious from the intensity of the warmth and safety washing over him.

Sakusa finally raises his head, but the dignity lasts for only a bare quarter hour before he visibly shivers, multiple times, and curls into a tighter, smaller ball, and finally screams at the main jumpscare of the movie.

At that point he is basically coiled under Atsumu’s right arm, as if the limb itself can shelter him from the horrors of the world, and watches with his chin on his knees and the fleece blanket protectively wrapping him into a burrito. He gasps, mutters swallowed curses and all in all, cracks his calm façade open during the whole movie.

Atsumu thinks this is what love looks like.

✵

When the movie ends, Sakusa is taking shaky breaths on Atsumu’s right side. Atsumu can smell the familiar shampoo and feel Sakusa shivering. He is barely fighting the urge to lift his chin and pull him into a soft kiss, so he excuses himself and makes his way towards the guest bathroom.

Calm _down,_ he says internally as he stares at himself on the bathroom mirror, hands placed on the sink. _What the fuck are ya doin? Tryin’ to get yerself kicked out?_

He shrugs. After splashing cold water onto his face, he enters the kitchen and opens his mouth to announce his leave. “Omi-k-”

Sakusa flinches so hard that the glass drops from his pale hand. It shatters on the marble floor, shards flying away in a million directions. Atsumu doesn’t see the main point of impact because of the island between them, but knows Sakusa is barefoot. _“Shit._ Don’t move.”

He walks carefully, trying not to step on the glass with his borrowed slippers, and finally stands next to Sakusa, who is staring at him like he’s seen Atsumu for the first time in his life. “Yer not gonna like this.”

“Wha-” Sakusa’s voice is thin, but he doesn’t get to form the word when Atsumu scoops him up in one smooth motion, and takes him out of the kitchen. He drops the man off in the hallway, and points to the bedroom with his head. “Go sleep. I’ll clean it up and leave.”

Sakusa looks at him, not annoyed, not bothered, not disgusted but somehow… hollow and pale.

“Okay,” he murmurs, uncharacteristically obedient, padding silently towards the bedroom.

The oddness in his behaviour and the unusual lack of snide remarks don’t escape Atsumu, but it must be the movie. It’s called one of the best horror movies ever for a reason, and judging by the looks of it, Sakusa is… fainthearted.

Atsumu chuckles as he turns around, thinking of if Sakusa would smack him on the head if he heard that thought out loud.

Well, no. He would probably fix him with one of his impassive gazes.

He looks at the kitchen, and figures he needs a broom and a dustpan before he gets into it with the vacuum.

✵

He is almost going to start the vacuum when he sees Sakusa’s reflection from the kitchen’s window. He just stands at the door, looking at the floor.

“Ya okay?”

Atsumu turns his head to look at him. Sakusa is wrapped, once again, in the grey fleece blanket. The end of the blanket makes it look like he has a tail, and it’s curled around his graceful, pale feet, which are bare on the marble floor. Isn’t he cold?

“I can’t sleep.”

The sound of his voice is so soft and vulnerable that Atsumu has to fight off a physical urge to walk over to him and pull him into a hug.

“What do ya want me to do, Omi-kun? Read ya a bedtime story?”

Sakusa looks at him, bleary eyed. Atsumu immediately wants to take the words back.

“Not a story,” Sakusa says quietly. “But could you stay? I don’t think I can sleep otherwise.”

Oh, god.

Atsumu snaps out of the shock in mere seconds, and smiles at the man, who looks like a child in the blanket. The vulnerability and softness make Atsumu’s chest tighten and expand at the same time, and he’s not sure if he’s blessed or damned.

“Sure,” he replies, his voice a bit strained. His eyes burn. _You idiot,_ he says to himself. _Don’t fucking cry._ “We can watch something else to distract you.”

“Okay.”

Sakusa turns and walks towards the living room, and then stops in his tracks. “I don't think I can stare at the television and not think about Samara climbing out of it.”

“Bedroom then,” Atsumu suggests. His stomach feels like he’s at the top of the rollercoaster and there is barely any time before he drops altogether.

“Okay.”

Atsumu turns the vacuum on and collects whatever residue of the incident is left lying around. Once he makes sure it’s safe, he collects the machine, empties the tank, and makes his way to the bedroom.

✵

It's funny, really, that one horror movie strips Sakusa of all his defensiveness and quick-witted replies. He looks like he’s contemplating his existence while tracing patterns on the white quilt cover with his fingers. He, honestly, looks _miserable._

Atsumu stifles a laugh, because this is simply going to be how he ends. He will die here, in Sakusa’s bedroom, looking at the man and desperately trying not to pull him in a bone-crushing hug and murmur sweet nothings into his ear until he falls asleep. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say or even suggest what to watch.

Thankfully, Sakusa speaks and things seem normal again, a bit. “Please don’t get in the bed with those clothes. I set some for you on the dresser.”

“Okay.”

Atsumu moves to pick up the clothing, and realizes he doesn’t want to strip in front of Sakusa. It feels... not wrong, but awkward to a degree and definitely uncomfortable. So, he walks to the ensuite, changes, and returns to settle on the bed, a careful distance between him and Sakusa.

✵

Sakusa opens his laptop, and watches it with tired eyes as Atsumu stares at him. He looks exhausted and sleepy, hair a mess and body language almost afraid.

“Nothing’s gonna hurt you tonight,” Atsumu tells him, hoping to somewhat subside the borderline horror in the man’s stiff limbs. “I promise. I’m here.”

“Surely. You’re one to talk when you’re in my bed.”

“Oi, what’s that supposedta mean? I never hurt ya without yer consent.” Atsumu winks despite himself, trying to break the tension.

And as a wonderful reward, Sakusa’s lips curl into a small smile. It’s so small that it looks almost like a wince, but it’s something. Then he frowns.

“And you don’t even do that anymore,” Sakusa says, slightly defeated.

What the _hell?_

One single horror movie, and Sakusa is voicing his insecurities? Dislikes? Whatever this is?

Atsumu doesn’t reply. Not out of dignity or distance, simply because he can't. He then manages out a “Ya really got it bad with the movie, didn’tcha?”

Sakusa sighs, finally letting go of the conversation, giving in and clicking on his keyboard, scrolling through the main page of videos. Then he stops. “Do you have a preference?”

“Nah, pick whatever ya want.”

As Sakusa browses, Atsumu cannot help but look over the page. A lot of volleyball match analyses, of course, and there are the aforementioned cake decorating videos. Oh. Sakusa is trying to learn how to bake?

“Ya don’t know how to bake?”

Sakusa raises his head at the baffled question, and looks at him with an unimpressed gaze. “Not all of us grow up allowed to ruin the kitchen, Miya.”

“Call me by my name, damnit,” Atsumu groans.

“Fine. Atsumu.”

Okay, Atsumu was definitely not ready to hear _that_ out of Sakusa’s mouth. His tongue feels heavy. When he recovers, though, he thinks of Sakusa’s reply. “Whadaya mean ya weren’t allowed in the kitchen?”

“We had maids, but I never got close enough for them to let me into the kitchen, where I would probably make a mess,” Sakusa says absent-mindedly.

Atsumu just stares at him, trying to understand how limited and incomplete a childhood would become if not given the sheer opportunity to _fuck up_ and then learn to clean up afterwards. “So… did you ever…?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

They sit in silence for a while as Sakusa keeps scrolling through the baking tutorials littering the main page - and a shitload of them, too. A few brownie recipes catch Atsumu’s eye, and he grins.

“Do ya have bitter chocolate in the house?”

Sakusa looks at him sideways. “Craving?”

“Nah. Do you have it?”

“Yes, it should be somewhere in the bottom drawer beneath the cutlery-”

“Come on!” Atsumu springs out of the bed, extending a hand towards Sakusa to help him do the same. Sakusa looks confused at the sudden mood swing, but he reluctantly takes his hand and stands up.

When they make it to the kitchen, Atsumu shuffles through and rattles the cupboards - he saw the lining paper there, and the butter is in the fridge, and he finds the chocolate where it’s mentioned - and when he sees the ingredients together at the countertop, something akin to understanding flashes in Sakusa’s eyes.

“Mi-Atsumu, no,” he pleads, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Why?” Atsumu asks, a black oven tray in his hand, as he sets the oven to a certain degree. “Ya afraid?”

“I…” Sakusa drifts off, only to recollect his composure again. “I’ve never baked and it’s just… a fantasy. I don’t know how to actually do it.”

“Come on, Omi!” Atsumu exclaims. “You’ve watched at least a dozen of those tutorials, and ya don’t even need to! Ya have _me!”_

“And what gives you any sort of credibility?” Sakusa eyes him warily.

“In the Miya household,” Atsumu puffs his chest up with pride, “Samu cooks, and _I_ bake.”

“Oh.”

“Yah. But today, you’re the chef. I’ll be merely helpin’.”

_“Oh.”_

“Come on, now. C’mere.”

Sakusa’s reluctance is almost sweet, but it hurts Atsumu to see that the man is not even comfortable in his own kitchen, just because he’s afraid to make a mess. He internally thanks his own mother, letting them make mistakes as children, with only the prerequisites that they’d not hurt themselves and clean up afterwards. He just wants to hug Sakusa, and make sure he feels safe. Not judged, not scolded. Just accepted and enjoyed.

“It’s okay, Omi,” he murmurs when Sakusa’s bare feet approach him hesitantly. He looks at the dark, shiny eyes. “We’re gonna have fun, and that’s all this is about.”

He doesn’t know why he’s trying to reassure someone for _baking._ It’s such a fun process, and it comes with almost no trouble. It’s just music, sweet smells, some mistakes here and there, bantering and cleaning up for Atsumu. He doesn’t understand how the process isn’t the same for everyone else, but Sakusa is so unsure and doubtful about it that it jabs Atsumu in the chest to look at him. He just wants him to enjoy the process and to not overthink it.

“Okay,” Sakusa says, a shaky breath out of his mouth.

“Okay,” Atsumu repeats. Then he motions towards the countertop. “Here are the ingredients. Do ya know what to do?”

“Melt the chocolate first?” It’s hesitant, but it’s an attempt nonetheless.

“True, but first we’ll melt the butter, then pour it over the chocolate to melt that as well,” Atsumu corrects. “I’ll break the chocolate down to smaller pieces. Ya go ahead and melt half of this.”

Sakusa takes the butter from him and looks at it, then at Atsumu. There is the timid gaze again.

Atsumu doesn’t say anything this time, however. He just looks at Sakusa until Sakusa drops his eyes and walks over to find a pot for the process.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Atsumu murmurs to himself, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He taps on the screen a few times, and the slow saxophone fills the kitchen with its pleasant, baritone vibrations.

“You and jazz?”

“Oi, why the unbelief?” Atsumu protests. “Baking goes best with jazz in Ma’s opinion. I don’t make the rules,” he mumbles.

Sakusa doesn’t respond, but Atsumu can see the almost-smile on his lips.

✵

The butter is melted, and so is the chocolate. Atsumu watches as he instructs Sakusa to swirl the butter-chocolate mixture clumsily with the rubber spatula, and then dips a finger thoughtlessly and holds it in front of Sakusa’s mouth. “Taste it, it’s _really fuckin’ good.”_

Sakusa looks at the dripping, molten mixture with part horror and part curiosity, and then leans in to take the finger into his mouth, and that’s where Atsumu understands his mistake. He helplessly watches as Sakusa inevitably wraps his lips around his index finger, and swallows tightly at the feeling, threatening his insides with combustion. Atsumu averts his gaze, feeling a blush crawl onto his neck. Fuck, he’s stupid.

“‘s just butter and chocolate,” he mumbles, almost to himself, and Sakusa hums around his finger. Atsumu withdraws it like it’s been burnt, trying not to think of vulgar scenes, and clears his throat. “Yes. So. Keep mixin’.”

Sakusa looks at him knowingly, and turns his head back again at the mixture. When they make sure everything is semi-liquid buttery goodness, Atsumu motions at the eggs and sugar.

“So, ya see, we needta mix them seperately to make sure it’s all fluffy and combined,” he explains. “So, we’re gonna mix these first, then add the chocolate _slowly_ to make sure we don’t cook the eggs with it.”

“Okay,” Sakusa says, distracted at the viscosity of the chocolate mix as he watches it drip from the rubber spatula back into the bowl. “This looks really good.”

“It’s gonna get even better,” Atsumu says cheekily. “Now, the eggs.”

✵

“Is it normal that we have so little sugar in this?”

“It’s one of the key points, actually,” Atsumu says, enjoying his cup of coffee on the counter, kicking his feet as Sakusa slowly adds the chocolate mixture to the eggs in batches and mixes it with his left hand every time. “It’s one of the mistakes people make, to add too much sugar or flour, or to bake it for too long.”

“Hmm.” Sakusa sounds entirely unconvinced, and Atsumu stares at him.

“Doubtin’ my knowledge?”

“Kind of, but it’s going well thus far, so I’m not complaining.”

“Be thankful ya _dipshit,”_ Atsumu growls. He grabs a fistful of flour and throws it at Sakusa, who startles and looks at him beneath white eyelashes and a snowy head.

They hold breaths for a second, and then Atsumu lets an outcry of laughter echo in the room, mixing with Ella Fitzgerald in the background. “Ya - ya look like a fox - oh my god-”

 _“Miya.”_ Sakusa snarls, rubber spatula in one hand, the other bandaged one almost touching his face in disbelief. He shakes his head to see flour falling down like snowflakes. “Miya, you _idiot.”_

Atsumu is roaring with glee, and does not seem even a bit phased by the fury in Sakusa’s voice. “Ya should— see yerself— oh god—” He is wheezing, having the time of his life. “Yer _face—”_

Sakusa cannot take it any longer, and he lets go of the spatula as he dips three fingers into the chocolate mix and smears it across Atsumu’s face in an attempt to shut him up. Atsumu looks at him, shocked, and then he brings fingers to his face to taste what’s on it. When the chocolate melts further in his mouth, his eyes glint with such mischief that Sakusa finds himself taking a couple steps back.

“Come here,” Atsumu coos, so soft that it’s threatening, and he hops off from the counter. “Come here, ya little sheep.”

“Atsumu, stop being creepy.” Another step back.

“I’ll fucking _showya_ creepy!” And Atsumu attacks him as Sakusa escapes him with a yelp, and they form circles while they run around the isle in the middle.

“Stop it! We’re _adults!”_ Sakusa almost yells at him, the white powder on his face smearing across the back of his hand when he tries to wipe it off.

“Ya could’ve thought about that before you did _this,”_ Atsumu motions at his own face threateningly, and dashes from the left side, finally managing to grab the hem of Sakusa’s sweater. Sakusa fruitlessly tries to escape, but to no avail: Atsumu’s fingers dig into his stomach, pulling him while they catastrophically tumble onto the ground.

God, there is flour everywhere, and Atsumu is doing something—

With one sudden jerk, Atsumu is on top of Kiyoomi. They look at each other, their breaths trying to catch up with their energy, inhaling each other’s sweet scents as they pant. Kiyoomi can almost taste the chocolate on Atsumu’s face, which ironically looks like the streaks on their jerseys. He huffs, and laughs lightheartedly at the flour flying away from his face and his hair.

Then Atsumu leans in, dangerously close, and Kiyoomi’s breath catches. He lifts his chin up imperceptibly, unawarely hopeful for a kiss to finish off this ridiculous childish chase Atsumu started, subconsciously wanting the soft lips on his, the taste of bitter chocolate-

Instead, like the fucking seven-year-old he is, Atsumu rubs his cheeks all over Sakusa’s face, drawing back with a victorious flash in his eyes, brown and white smears all across his skin.

Kiyoomi feels the disappointment drop into his stomach, but glares at him because “You look ridiculous, Atsumu.”

“Look at yerself,” Atsumu chuckles, hearty and warm. “Ya look like a fuckin’ zebra.”

“Get off of me.”

“Make me.” Atsumu licks his lips, and almost spits out immediately at the taste of bland flour. Kiyoomi throws his head back, hitting the marble underneath them, and lets out a hefty laugh.

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, but there’s no stopping it now, not when the sudden feeling of familiarity hits him with full force. The unexpected moment comes bearing the knowledge that he feels safe with Atsumu, protected from pain; especially past, probably present and maybe, just maybe, future. Kiyoomi knows Atsumu is looking at him, he knows he’s being watched, but the sudden _relief_ that washes over him is just too much to handle. So he laughs, and he laughs until tears are twinkling at the corners of his eyes, and he laughs until his abs hurt and his throat feels sore.

When finally the laughter subsides into giggles and chuckles, he opens his eyes to find Atsumu staring at him with a funny look in his gaze, almost like yearning. Kiyoomi laughs softly again, feeling the tension of the last days dissolving into the air and disappearing with the echoes. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu says, soft as well, and lets Kiyoomi go by shuffling sideways, so Kiyoomi is lying on the marble and Atsumu has his back against the isle.

“Well, that’s a fuckin’ mess,” Atsumu murmurs, looking at the back of his hand smeared with chocolate and flour. “But we gotta finish the batch’a brownies first.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi says, carefully lifting himself up with his left hand. He looks at the floor. Flour is _everywhere,_ and for the first time in his life, Kiyoomi doesn’t worry about it.

✵

They continue the process, and finally Atsumu is holding the metal bowl for Sakusa to scoop its contents into the lined pyrex. Sakusa awkwardly tries to smooth out the surface with the spatula in his left hand, the chocolate smears and the flour on the bandages making Atsumu giggle. Sakusa shoots a look at him.

Then Atsumu places the container safely in the oven, turning back to look at the kitchen. So, there are stray drops of chocolate all over the counter, and apparently while they were running they tipped over the coffee mug as well, and its content is silently dripping into a puddle on the marble floor. Flour is everywhere, and Atsumu sees that it’s smeared across the bar stool as well. He looks at his own hands, and despite the thorough wash there are still marks on his forearms.

When he lifts his head to finally look Sakusa in the eye, though, it’s all worth it. The dark gaze is sparkling with joy and lightness, and Atsumu’s heart skips a beat at the intensity of _belonging_ suddenly conquering him, as it apparently makes a habit of that.

A smile tugs at his lips.

“Let’s getya cleaned up, I’ll deal with this,” he says.

“How long is it going to bake?”

“Approximately 35 minutes, but we’ll check,” Atsumu replies easily. He then leans on the counter, and throws a few wet wipes at Sakusa’s face. “Wipe yer face. I don’t wanna vacuum the entire corridor again.”

“This is all your fault,” Sakusa murmurs, muffled under the wet wipe over his mouth. He withdraws it to see if the chocolate is coming off, and places it onto his face again. “You started this.”

“No regrets.”

“I can see that.”

✵

It takes a quick shower and a full half hour of cleaning to get the kitchen back to its original state. By that time the house smells like a chocolate heaven, and Atsumu is humming along to a blues tune when he hears footsteps shuffling towards him. He places the pyrex on the metal trivet and motions Sakusa to come. “Smell it.”

Sakusa inhales deeply over the batch, and closes his eyes with wonder written across his face. “Wow.”

“Toldja - and you made it all on your own! With your left hand only!” Atsumu boasts, proud and caring.

Sakusa looks at him, all soft, vulnerable and happy, and Atsumu just can’t hold back anymore. The control he tries to get a hold of snaps again, and he finds himself tightly hugging the man, pressing him into his chest as if that will relay his feelings for him.

He starts to draw back in a few moments, but almost immediately feels the tentative hands of Sakusa climbing onto his shoulders, and feels Sakusa’s chin resting on top of Atsumu’s shoulder.

They share the embrace for a couple more seconds. Atsumu feels stunned and warm and honestly too many emotions to compartmentalize and categorize just in that moment, but when he feels Sakusa is breaking contact he feels the smile inevitably conquering his whole expression.

Sakusa looks… almost shy. Atsumu raises a brow, and opens his mouth to say something, only to shut it again when Sakusa hisses, “Don’t.”

His smirk prevails but he happily obliges, not thinking of what this means, or might mean in the near future. He just enjoys it, as it is.

“So,” he continues like nothing happened. “We needta let it rest for at least half an hour before we cut it, and then we can eat it.”

“Okay. Why don’t we watch something?”

“That started this whole ordeal now, didn’t it?”

“It was you,” Sakusa points out, not bothered.

Atsumu rolls his eyes, playful and good-natured. He walks over to the bedroom, flops down onto the bed face-first and stretches.

Sakusa sits calmly against the headboard, and picks up his laptop from its abandoned state, fingering it idly. “I have an idea.”

“I don’t trust yer ideas,” Atsumu mumbles into the quilt.

“I just did trust yours, Atsumu.” Sakusa stares daggers at him.

Atsumu tries to not visibly shiver at his given name rolling out of Sakusa’s mouth like it always belonged there. “Fine. What.”

“Can we pretend…” Sakusa takes a deep inhale. “That you did not say ‘for all time’ and just said ‘for today’ when you were leaving?”

Atsumu frowns in confusion, and then understands what Sakusa is talking about.

Oh.

“Why?”

The question is not solely out of morbid curiosity; well, it is, but not in the way most people would guess. It’s not about the reason why, because it’s obvious, Sakusa wants sex. And as much as his chest aches, Atsumu understands that. But why go out on a limb and ask him, and do that with a hypothetical question even, instead of just asking anybody else who would kill to have sex with Sakusa?

The actual question is, _why me?_

And Atsumu kind of wishes Sakusa doesn’t get it. But he also wishes that he does.

Sakusa thinks quietly for a while. Then he inhales deeply once again.

“Would you just trust me if I told you I don’t know why but still want it?”

Atsumu does not breathe. He, in fact, is sure that he does not exist at that moment. Sakusa here, telling him he’s unsure of why but still wants Atsumu. _Not exactly with that phrasing,_ the inner voice corrects. Atsumu ignores it.

Sakusa speaks before he can form a response, unsure, doubtful, his voice so tight that all Atsumu wants is to make it go away.

“You told me nothing would hurt me tonight, too,” he chances a sideways glance at Atsumu. “You promised.”

Okay, now, that is not fair. Atsumu blinks, and then repeats the motion to snap out of the shock of Sakusa being _so_ vulnerable that he reminds him of the promise Atsumu offhandedly offered. Since when does he take promises seriously?

Since when does he _listen_ to Atsumu?

Sakusa sighs.

As much as he hates it, as much as he knows he might feel bad after it, as much as he wants Sakusa to love him… Atsumu just can’t deny him something when Sakusa asks him, this vulnerable and open. He is aware of how monumentally risky it is for Sakusa to ask for something even after he got rejected. A piece of him even appreciates Sakusa reaching out - if he was being very honest, he appreciates it so deeply that he would rather chop his own arm off than to make him regret it. He refuses to let his nagging fears wound Sakusa’s pride, or emotional openness, or whatever this is.

Atsumu realizes that Sakusa is probably taking his silence as a rejection, and he straightens on the bed.

He will probably regret this, but he will regret letting Sakusa down more.

So, he shuffles to sit across Sakusa, crossing his legs. “I would.”

Sakusa lifts his head at the sudden words, questioning him with his gaze.

“I would trust ya.”

And that, apparently, is all it takes to take Sakusa’s breath away.

“Can I kiss you?” he almost whispers, barely leaning in.

Atsumu doesn’t know how he is still alive with everything fleeting around in his chest, screaming inaudible things with love and excitement and everything he’s built up in his entire life. “Yes.”

And then Sakusa leans forward, laptop shuffling and falling somewhere on the bed between them, and gently holds Atsumu by his neck, fingers brushing up against his ears. Atsumu cannot tear his eyes away from the soft way Sakusa is scanning his face, his eyebrows, his lips. Then he closes his eyes, and Atsumu mimics it when he feels Sakusa’s breath tickling his lips.

Finally, Sakusa kisses him.

It’s not true what they say, actually. Falling in love does not happen with loud bangs or fireworks skyrocketing and exploding all over the place. It happens at an ungodly hour of the night, in a silent house, on a calm and clean bed, between two careful hands that hold Atsumu like he’s going to crack any second. It happens in his chest, like a sphere of chocolate finally melts and warms everything up with the ambrosia it has kept inside for such a long time. It feels like spring, it feels like the mornings he wakes up rested in his hometown, under the soft nuzzling of the sunlight through the tulle curtains shuffling peacefully with the breeze. And it sounds like a haunting giggle, one belonging to the flour-swept face twisting joyfully on the marble floor beneath him, and it sounds like the birds chirping at a forgotten hour before sunrise, which Atsumu used to call the “midnight chorus” when he had to explain Osamu why he was awake.

It feels like a lot of things, but one thing is correct. It feels like coming back home, or everything he desperately called “home” to feel like he actually belonged somewhere.

It feels like something finally clicks.

And Atsumu doesn’t realize it until Sakusa draws back and swipes his cheek with his thumb carefully, glistening with the tears dropping. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu manages to croak out. “Intense day.”

“I can imagine,” Sakusa replies, calm but soft. He then stands on his knees, shuffles towards Atsumu and straddles him gently. The tenderness of his motions somewhat startles Atsumu. He feels genuinely, lovingly cared for, he feels held, he feels _seen._

Sakusa pushes him back, and bends over to him, one hand straying from his face to dip in between his locks. He just looks, as if he’s seeing Atsumu for the first time, but so much different than the moment in the kitchen. He gazes at Atsumu’s beauty mark on his chin, he drags a tender finger across his jawline, quietly holding his jaw with his fingers and leaning in once more for a kiss.

Atsumu sighs into the contact, and finally brings his hands up to the soft, damp curls. He pulls Sakusa further into him, and feels the man relaxing, limbs loosening. A sigh escapes the beautiful, darkened lips as Sakusa draws back to look at him. He bends his neck slowly to access Atsumu’s neck, and presses warm, gentle kisses here and there.

It doesn’t feel like Sakusa is trying to drag him into some mindless sex. This feels different; Atsumu can’t quite put his finger on what it is but also doesn’t know what to do about it. He also doesn’t want to overthink it and end up with some conclusion that might make his heart shatter or stutter. He just wants to…. live this. As it is.

Sakusa just sits on top of him, and Atsumu can feel his erection, but neither of them move to increase the friction. It’s as if that’s not what this is about. It feels like… exploration. Adoration, maybe, if Atsumu had the courage to be that bold.

Sakusa looks at him, an indecipherable gaze in the magnetic depths of his galaxy eyes, and his lips curl upwards slightly. “Let’s go taste the brownies.”

They don’t break eye contact, and neither of them move. Atsumu mutters “Okay,” but his hands still rest on Sakusa’s hips, and Sakusa is still looking at him as if he’s a new, wonderful thing.

 _Don’t read too much into it,_ comes as a whisper.

 _Will you please shut the fuck up for a second?_ he snaps.

Sakusa gently lifts himself off and lands on his feet next to the bed. Atsumu sits up, looking at both erections, and laughs - light, short and soft. Then he follows Sakusa to the kitchen.

✵

“Oh,” is all Sakusa says before biting another chunk off the slice. “Th’s’s r’lly go’od,” he muffles out, one hand beneath his mouth to catch the crumbs.

“Much better than ‘really good’, I see,” Atsumu smirks playfully, holding a similar slice in his hand. He bites into it, eyes still on Sakusa but finds that they flutter shut at the taste. God, it’s rich and wonderful. He hums.

It somehow reminds him of the man standing next to him. Not overly sweet, and bitter even, but just sweet enough to leave you wanting more of its taste. Enough to keep you hanging. Enough to keep you yearning.

Shit. Osamu would kick him in the balls if he knew Atsumu was being such a sap.

Atsumu doesn’t know what the rest of the night will hold. He doesn’t know if they will have sex, or if they should. But there is the inevitable fact that the way Sakusa looks at him tonight is enough for him to lay everything out bare for him. Atsumu swallows at the awareness of the fact that this might not be some stupid crush, and that he wants everything he can have before it inevitably ends.

 _“Don’t fuck him,”_ Osamu repeats in his head.

True. He shouldn’t. But when Sakusa dares a leap of faith to ask him, swallowing his own pride, how can Atsumu say no? The smallest vulnerability from the man cracks down Atsumu’s whole armor and leaves him completely naked to his demands.

Atsumu knows that deep down the decision is made, and at the exact moment Sakusa spoke to him softly on the bed too. He knows that he will not stand the regret of refusing Sakusa and thinking about _what if I kissed him then, what if I held his hand then,_ and who knows what else his brain can produce to torture him. He doesn’t care that he’ll inevitably be rejected, or kicked out. He just wants to taste the moment, here, now.

 _But the team,_ the inner voice objects. _What if this goes all awry and you fuck up the teamwork?_

Well, there are at least two more weeks until Sakusa returns to training. And they are, no matter how much Atsumu doesn’t like to think about it, professionals. Volleyball comes first for both of them. It will not be impossible to put these aside and just play.

Atsumu notices he’s zoned out, and Sakusa is talking about something. Shaking his head, he turns to the man. “Sorry. What was that?”

“I was asking if you could write down the recipe,” Sakusa repeats, neutral.

“Oh, yer gonna fall outta shape if ya eat it so fast Omi-kun,” Atsumu tries a weak smile, and Sakusa frowns when he catches it.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Atsumu squeaks, borderline horror seeping into him at the possibility of Sakusa understanding everything with one look. “Why?”

“Your emotional stability reminds me of what life must be like on fault lines,” Sakusa deadpans.

“Mean, Omi-kun. I just helped ya to a wonderful batch of brownies.”

Sakusa doesn’t let it go, however. “Be honest, Miya.”

Atsumu clenches his fist. God, he hates it when they go back to Miya.

“I’m just tired. As I said, intense day.”

Sakusa eyes him suspiciously, but apparently understands that he will not get much out of Atsumu.

“I’m also sleepy,” Atsumu blurts out to just end the fucking conversation.

“Hmm,” Sakusa says, eyeing the clock on the wall. “It’s almost 2 AM.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply to the statement. “I’ll go settle in the guest bedroom. Good night,” he says instead, and walks out of the kitchen.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa calls out after him.

Atsumu grits his teeth as he turns on his heels. “What?”

“Why were you crying?”

“Oh, we’re playing 20 questions now?”

It comes out much meaner and crueller than Atsumu intends it to. Partly because of his hunched shoulders, partly because he hissed it through his clenched teeth. But Sakusa, not surprisingly, is not phased at all by this. It’s the first sign of normalcy between them, for Atsumu at least - snarky comments, biting and frothing at the mouths; it feels normal. It also hurts to suddenly lose the man who very recently was kissing him so gently, as if Atsumu was made of glass.

The drilling gaze returns to Sakusa’s black eyes. “A teenager in that game would be more honest than you were tonight.”

“I didn’t think ya valued sincerity, Sakusa,” Atsumu snarls, terse and on the brink of snapping. He doesn’t know what brought him here, but also, this is a fucking rollercoaster of a night so what the hell?

He sees Sakusa flinch slightly at the surname tumbling out of his mouth and continues. “Ya certainly don’t provide as much as you demand. Talk ‘bout a fuckin’ hypocrite.”

He knows what he’s doing is unfair. He _knows,_ Atsumu _fucking knows_ that this is betraying every soft moment they had tonight, to take his anger out on him like this.

But it doesn’t make his confusion, frustration or desperation fade away.

Sakusa’s mouth flattens out into a line. “Sincerity and honesty are different things.” He takes exactly three steps, and they’re face to face. “Just like sex and work.”

“What is your _deal?”_ Atsumu yells, fingers flexed like claws. “What the hell is this? Just go out and _find_ someone to fuck and leave me alone!”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sakusa almost purrs, right in front of his face. Atsumu loathes the height difference. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want me.”

“You _asshole,”_ Atsumu hisses. “I’m here because I _hurt_ you.”

“You fucked me until I was begging, because you _hurt me,”_ Sakusa states mockingly.

Atsumu looks at the black eyes squinting upon him, and feels the havoc inside him reaching the brink. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Atsumu would laugh, if this was another situation, and claim that Sakusa finally gained a sense of humor. Hell, he might have even asked Bokuto to film this so that they can look back upon it fondly.

But now, on the brink of breaking down, filled with exasperation and frustration, all Atsumu can do to not punch the beautiful man in front of him is to slam him against the wall and capture his lips in one wounding, crashing kiss.

✵

It should be no surprise, but Kiyoomi is still curious about what makes him push Atsumu so much, so hard that he was sure Atsumu would hit him.

The kiss honestly feels no gentler than the possible physical damage.

It feels electric, the zaps buzzing their way to Kiyoomi’s hip and toes. Atsumu’s fingers are digging into his neck, almost imprinting, and his thumbs help him lift Kiyoomi’s head to deepen the kiss. Kiyoomi finds himself pressing his body into the warmth of Atsumu, a human furnace, and moans when Atsumu brings a rough hand down to his waist, yanking him closer.

Their tongues work heavily, ravenously, as if this is the end of the world and they have one last shot at making things right. Kiyoomi almost melts under the strength with which Atsumu is pinning him against the wall, and the way his tongue harasses Kiyoomi’s mouth demanding more, more and more to be revealed.

Atsumu breaks the kiss, not opening his eyes, and tries to breathe. Kiyoomi opens his eyes slightly, marveling at the fact that his drunken choice of kissing Atsumu brought him here. Atsumu looks _beautiful._ Kiyoomi raises one hand to Atsumu’s cheek, but it falls down without contact on second thoughts. Atsumu’s eyes flutter open. His furious golden eyes look deeply into Kiyoomi’s, and the next moment Atsumu is lifting him up from his ass, and Kiyoomi’s wrapping his legs around his waist.

They don’t stop kissing until they reach the bedroom, which makes it hard to locate the room for Atsumu. He accidentally walks into a wall on the left turn, but instead of pulling back and apologizing he prefers to pin Kiyoomi to the wall again, hands gripping tighter on his ass. Kiyoomi can’t hold back a moan because of the pain, which is surely that night’s bite mark still bruised, but it gives him the buzz that leaves him lightheaded. He tightens his legs around Atsumu’s waist, excited and eager for more. Atsumu groans into the kiss. Kiyoomi suppresses a moan.

A few seconds later Atsumu is practically throwing Kiyoomi onto the bed and turning the light on.

Atsumu sits on top of Kiyoomi, leaning down to press his lips against the other man’s. The kiss is intense, the heat boiling inside Kiyoomi is letting his hands wander on Atsumu’s back, and Kiyoomi needs more.

It is at that moment that Kiyoomi is struck by clarity. The man atop him is kissing him fervently; hands on his hair but never pulling, one hand travelling across his throat but never choking, lips kissing his vulnerable skin but never bruising, he himself never grinding.

He is _fucking_ with him.

Is this what revenge is for Miya Atsumu?

Kiyoomi frowns as Atsumu pulls back from the kiss, a fiery and satisfied expression on his face.

“What is it, Sakusa?” The mockery is so clear that Kiyoomi wants to punch him.

He feels his chest tightening but his frown stays still. “Grind onto me, Miya.”

“My name,” the blond setter reminds him, eyes threateningly dark.

“Atsumu, come on,” Kiyoomi says, frustrated.

Atsumu starts grinding with force and Kiyoomi throws his head back, letting a moan escape his lips. “Choke me and kiss me, please,” he mutters out, thoughts dizzy. _Tease me, please me._

Atsumu’s growl sounds like thunder against him, and Kiyoomi can feel the man’s left hand seizing his cheek and travelling down. Atsumu leans forward, slowly kissing him; this time it has no hurry, and the antagonizing heaviness of the kiss lingers and echoes in Kiyoomi’s mind. Atsumu tastes him, licking into his mouth as if he owns the place, owns Kiyoomi. He opens his mouth to let out a moan, and Atsumu roughly bites his lower lip.

Kiyoomi wants more.

He wants to be hurt. He wants it to _count._

Atsumu grinds, and suddenly his fingers around Kiyoomi’s windpipe tighten and Kiyoomi is breathing in gasps, the world turning around him in star shaped lights in only a few seconds. Atsumu bites his neck, the grazing of teeth accompanied by soft kisses, and he starts leaving marks on the already stained chest. The grinding doesn’t stop and Kiyoomi finds his hands flying onto Atsumu’s back, then opting to hold the man’s forearm instead, his nails digging in.

Atsumu then lets go of his throat, and with the wide deep gasp of a breath Kiyoomi closes his eyes, eyelids fluttering, and his inhales darken at the feeling of a hand stroking his length. Too many layers of clothing are between him and the rough touch. The intense feelings coil within each other as the pleasure and pain keep building.

“Hit me,” Kiyoomi rasps.

Atsumu raises an eyebrow, would be playful if not for the anger in his eyes. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” Kiyoomi moans. _I need to feel the sting._

“Quite the masochist.” Atsumu murmurs, poisonous and so sweet it’s disgusting.

And then he hits, with force, onto Kiyoomi’s cheek. It burns, but it’s delectable; the sensation feels like _this_ is what he lives for; this thrill, this stinging, this heat. Kiyoomi remembers the times when he found, from mild to severe, enjoyment in physical pain. Now it all makes sense.

At the back of his mind, he knew what it was for a long time – when one defines oneself with the rare term of mysophobic, he gets to know other terms. “Masochist” meant, at least to him, someone who enjoyed pain in sexual terms. But now, as aroused as he is, he notices – remembers – small moments of his life where he was hurt, but it was still astounding. More often than not, it wasn’t sexual.

 _Maybe it’s about feeling something, anything,_ he thinks with fluttering eyelids, his grip on his thoughts getting weaker by the second. It’s been so long since he felt something, and tonight has been full of _everything._ And this pain – this savory, tingling feeling makes him want to laugh maniacally when the rush flows within him full–force, when he feels like it’s going to be a beautiful day, _a beautiful life._ Then it all clicks into place.

A satisfied moan escapes from him before Kiyoomi knows.

“We need safewords.”

Kiyoomi knows Atsumu’s right, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting more. He _needs_ it.

“Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for go on. And we should’ve discussed these before bed.” The voice is ragged, angry and exasperated.

“Alright.”

Atsumu stares at him, and then he’s flipping Kiyoomi over who lets out a surprised chirp, and peels away the boxers and the pajamas at once.

“Oh,” Atsumu says, the venomous smirk still audible. “Apparently, I claimed yer ass as mine the first night and might I say, Sakusa, it’s a good look on ya. Wear it more often.”

He then cups the bruised area with his hand, suddenly retrieving his hand to prepare to hit, but the impact never comes. His eyes are screwed shut, but when they fly open Kiyoomi sees the hand hanging midair from the mirror.

“You _asshole,”_ he hisses.

 _Now,_ the hand comes down with full force onto the bruise and Kiyoomi buries his head into the pillow to let out a long, strained moan.

“You’re gonna take 15. That was the first one.” Atsumu mutters carelessly, raising Kiyoomi’s ass into the air, hand in contact with his skin with a firm but soothing touch. Then there’s a smack, and Kiyoomi throws his head back to moan.

The other smack comes onto his left ass cheek again, this time just below the tender, bruised skin. Atsumu is strong and Kiyoomi low–key wonders what it would feel like if he hit him with full force.

Atsumu’s hand flies up to his hair, and Kiyoomi feels the strong pull so he opens his throat, opens his chest, opens his soul, and feels the breath flow through him.

Blossoming.

Atsumu pulls on his hair while smacking his ass mercilessly. Kiyoomi looks at the mirror on his right side, and sees that Atsumu is wearing a cruel, victorious smile on his face. Atsumu, maybe feeling he is being watched or maybe due to just a hunch, locks eyes with him and smiles, all ravenous and destructive. Before Kiyoomi can feel the full shiver that is running down his spine, another hit is furiously coaxing an animalistic sound from him, making his eyes lose their ways until only the whites are visible.

“Color?”

“Green.”

Without hesitation.

Kiyoomi is living for this. He is _thriving_ in this. The pain is unpleasant, but he can feel the red delicious roses under his skin, framing his thoughts with their thorns gently pressing but not exploding the bubbles of meaning. He revels in that gentle but constant pressure. It never gets too intense, too bloody, or to the point where he feels himself break. _Smack._

“Stop movin’ or I’ll stop.”

The thought that he needs to test his limits flies through his mind, unfollowed, while he moans. He wonders how far Atsumu could push him. _Smack._ The thought and the pain combined make his eyes water.

Atsumu pulls on his hair the hardest he has yet, and delivers another smack onto Kiyoomi’s ass, drawing a broken whine from the man with wet trickles on his face. Kiyoomi blinks away a couple of tears, roaming high in the ecstasy of pain.

“Such a good boy,” Atsumu notes, earning a croaked moan from Kiyoomi whose airway is so open that it threatens to close.

“Five left to go.”

Sakusa whimpers in pain, because his skin is much more sensitive after the impactful hits and he feels every single touch with extreme intensity now. He can feel the heat of his skin, and can feel his ass throbbing along with his heart pulsing. He takes a deep breath, and as he exh– _smack._

He inhales so feverishly that he feels his chest expanding painfully, and he has to let out the air with hurry. His throat’s position is not helping, but the feeling of _serving_ Atsumu, the feeling of being under total control; unable to move, to run, to escape, it fills him with _joy._ An incomparable, unmistakable feeling of intense joy drowns him. He spreads his legs, feeling his lower back arching further.

Trying to regulate his breaths, he feels Atsumu’s cool, gentle hand on the burning skin. He appreciates the calming sensation, and he lets out a sound between a sigh and a groan.

“You’ve been so good for me,” Atsumu says, somewhat calmer. “Never tried to avoid my touch.”

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes, and a tear falls down his right cheek. He moans silently.

“Anythinmg,” he says, swallowing the last syllable, his voice hoarse and his speech limited.

“Good. This one’s for talking back earlier in the corridor.”

And then another smack meets his skin, and this time Kiyoomi screams. It’s not only that he is more sensitive now, Atsumu definitely hit him harder.

“Atsumu,” he moans, head hazy with pain, ecstasy, the need to serve.

“Three more to go,” Atsumu says, almost gentle. “You’re about to make it.”

 _“Atsumu,”_ Kiyoomi moans again.

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes, determined to make the most out of these last ones, and prepares himself.

The blow knocks the air out of his lungs. A moment after Atsumu’s right hand contacts his skin, his whole body shakes and it is exquisitely painful. It _burns, burns and burns._ It sends shockwaves throughout his body, burns him alive, scorches his soul, and he for one second considers if this is his limit, doesn’t know if he screamed or not.

After that is a haze. His eyes gaze into the dimly lit bedroom, soft lights scattered around the bedpost, but he doesn’t see much. The pain and the pleasure swirl in his head, rising in crescendo notes with colors surrounding them. It is nothing like what he has experienced before, but at the same time, it’s so easy to completely surrender to this feeling.

He doesn’t know whether Atsumu delivers the last two hits, doesn’t know if he stops or if he keeps hitting him. He cannot compute much. It just feels heart–breakingly, breath–takingly amazing. It’s like his brain suddenly condensed and he is swimming in thick water, able to breathe through every second of it but heavily, slowly, he is blessed. He wants to stay here forever.

“Kiyoomi, you did so well for me,” is faintly heard in the background. He collapses onto the bed, curling into a ball. It hurts. It feels _good._ It feels _safe._

There is a hand on his hair, petting slowly, and then he feels the change of weight in the bed when Atsumu sits against the headboard. Kiyoomi feels his gaze swimming. Probably after some time – Kiyoomi cannot tell – Atsumu pats on his lap, and Kiyoomi looks at it for a couple of seconds, trying to understand the meaning. When he does, he raises his head slowly and lets go when it’s hovering over Atsumu’s thighs. Atsumu’s warm left hand covers his chin and cheek. The other one pets his curls.

He can hear the praises, the “good boy”s, the “you looked so good, Kiyoomi”s, but all he can do is to hum happily. He doesn’t feel the strength to respond.

After a while, Kiyoomi doesn’t know how long, Atsumu gently touches him on the shoulder. “Baby,” he says, and Kiyoomi smiles sheepishly, “let’s get ya into the shower.”

Kiyoomi hums with discontent.

“What’s wrong?”

Kiyoomi, in the haze, nods in the direction of Atsumu’s lap, where his visible erection lies. Atsumu’s face seems puzzled.

“Can ya talk?”

“You…” Kiyoomi slurs. “didn’t…”

“Oh,” Atsumu says. Kiyoomi shuts his eyes and hums again.

“Kiyoomi, this wasn’t about an orgasm.”

“No,” Kiyoomi insists stubbornly, weakly.

“Kiyoomi,” Atsumu repeats softly, but sternly, and Kiyoomi feels the shiver tingling through him at hearing his name echoing with Atsumu’s tender tone. “Ya won’t disappoint me at all if ya choose to get into the shower. I enjoyed our time thoroughly. Do ya understand?”

Kiyoomi nods in acknowledgement.

“Do ya still wanna play?”

“Yes.” Kiyoomi says slowly.

“Mkay,” he hears Atsumu say. “What’s yer color?”

“Green,” Kiyoomi says, dragging out the vowel.

“Okay.”

Atsumu gently holds him and helps him to come to a sitting position. His ass stings.

Atsumu pats on his lap once more and Kiyoomi climbs onto him without hesitation, although he still feels like he’s in the thick water. God, his legs feel sore, heavy. Everything is heavy and soft. And then Atsumu pulls him into a kiss, with one hand patting gently on his ass. Kiyoomi groans and then melts into Atsumu’s lips.

Atsumu bites his bottom lip, the kissing getting more fervent by the second, both men getting harder at each other’s lewd and suggestive noises. Kiyoomi finds his left hand grabbing a fistful of dirty yellow hair as he unawarely grinds slowly on Atsumu’s lap, the friction both making him moan in pleasure and sending crimson sparks behind his eyes due to the hypersensitivity of his ass.

It’s like living a sunset. Like becoming one with it.

Atsumu breaks the kiss, raising his head to breathe, and Kiyoomi docilely kisses the neck presented to him, feeling the hands that cup his ass pull him down stronger. The pain is lighter now, but nothing to underestimate. It makes Kiyoomi’s cock twitch in anticipation.

Kiyoomi wants to leave another mark onto the delicious groove right above Atsumu’s collarbone, but his bones are melting and he cannot focus on sucking. Suddenly Atsumu takes one hand up, pulling his hair, and the other hand comes onto his throat. He doesn’t know how he suddenly ends up on his back, Atsumu right above him, but the friction continues and he is thankful. Atsumu grinds on him while kissing, both of Kiyoomi’s legs wrapped around his waist.

“Yer so beautiful like this,” Atsumu whispers between two feverish kisses. Kiyoomi feels his face heating up, so intense and loving that he cannot hold back an easy smile. To serve like this, and be appreciated. And then Atsumu hums and speaks into his neck, “So beautiful that ya deserve to be fucked into oblivion.”

Kiyoomi feels his mouth go dry and his cock throbs at the statement. He licks his lips, trying to breathe as Atsumu fishes out a condom and the bottle of lube.

It is a matter of time until Atsumu pulls his legs back onto his waist and pushes his cool and slick index finger inside him. It is good, but not enough. Kiyoomi squirms to feel more friction. He hears Atsumu chuckle and the humiliation zaps within him, pushing control further out of reach.

The finger is withdrawn, only to be replaced with two. Kiyoomi moans, one hand flying up to cover his mouth. Atsumu reaches to remove the hand.

“I wanna hear the pretty sounds ya make for me,” he murmurs. And then he curls his fingers inside Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi feels like if he could come right here and then, he would, with another praise.

Atsumu starts to fuck him with his fingers, sloppy and squeaky sounds filling the room, fingers sometimes stretched and sometimes not. Kiyoomi moans, wraps his legs around the strong waist a little tighter, and he finds his legs shaking, himself begging.

“Please…”

“Please what?” Atsumu asks. He’s mocking him. He has to be.

“Pl’s, _fuckme,”_ Kiyoomi slurs.

“Ya forgot a word.”

“Ats’mu, _pl’se_ fuck me,” Kiyoomi whimpers.

“Ya have to wait.”

Kiyoomi wants to sob.

And then three fingers enter him, and when Atsumu stretches his fingers – those fingers that always set the ball reliably to him, those fingers with which he cooked for him – Kiyoomi wails, back arching into the friction and stretch, not registering the pain at all.

He turns his head to the side, desperate for more, and sees Atsumu watching him from the mirror with an intense, focused gaze. He notices that precome has leaked from the aching head of his cock and dribbled onto his stomach. He also notices that he is naked, but Atsumu is fully clothed. It somehow makes his blood sing even more.

He sees Atsumu’s clean fingers slide on his stomach, and Atsumu extends his free hand towards his mouth.

“Taste yerself spillin’ for me.”

Kiyoomi looks at the fingers for a while with unfocused eyes, not sure if he is more disgusted or turned on, and then opens his mouth, welcoming the salty taste.

He sucks on Atsumu’s fingers while looking him directly in the eye, feeling the desperation and hurry in his own expression, and he can swear he sees Atsumu’s cock jumping. He watches as the blond man’s eyes darken, his face glazed with hunger and desire.

Atsumu suddenly pushes all three fingers into him, much deeper than his previous reach, and curls his fingers. Kiyoomi yells in surprise, the sound slowly turning into a long, creeping moan.

And then the fingers are withdrawn. Again.

Kiyoomi moves, trying to feel the nonexistent friction, and he notices that Atsumu is lowering his boxers but not removing them. He watches as Atsumu rolls the condom onto himself, and he watches as he gets himself slick with lube. Then Atsumu hovers above him, Kiyoomi’s ankles at the blond man’s shoulders, cool lube dripping onto Kiyoomi’s stomach. “You _deserved_ this.”

Kiyoomi feels the heat of Atsumu’s words pushing him high, unsure whether it's praise or humiliation but before he can figure it out, Atsumu thrusts into Kiyoomi with one smooth, forceful motion.

Kiyoomi throws his head back with force and howls. 

“I love,” Atsumu says, withdraws and then thrusts back into him, “how vocal ya are.”

Kiyoomi makes a guttural sound, the noise mixing with Atsumu’s moans and gasps. The obscene sounds of slick skin hitting each other pushes Kiyoomi so much higher _._

He feels _dirty._

He feels _alive._

He also feels his skin, aflame, sizzling with pleasure after every strike.

And there’s the coiling of intense electricity in his stomach.

“Can I,” he gasps. “Can I….”

Atsumu looks at him, not stopping his thrusts, smirking. “Speak.”

“Can I… touch…” Kiyoomi moans, “myself…”

Atsumu grabs his thighs tighter, and thrusts into Kiyoomi with more force than before.

“Yes.”

Kiyoomi’s left hand flies up to his cock and starts to clumsily stroke himself, not taking it slow at all. He is terrible at this. His rhythm is hard to keep up with, his grip with his left hand isn’t as good –

“Look at me.”

Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu.

“Touch yerself. Slow.”

Kiyoomi lets out a whimper, brows knitting together, mouth slightly open, and keeps eye contact as he slowly strokes himself and lets out a moan and whimper every time Atsumu moves against him.

“You should see yer face, Kiyoomi.”

He cannot think of how broken he looks. He shouldn’t. The thought just drives him higher.

“Faster.”

Kiyoomi throws his head back and lets his hand move faster. Up and down. He feels Atsumu stop, still inside him, and hears a familiar click.

The next thing he knows is his groin and stomach are dripping with cool lube.

“Keep going,” Atsumu says as he keeps fucking him, voice a bit strained.

Now, it feels amazing. Just enough friction, and his hand moves so fast all Kiyoomi can do is moan, growl, and arch his back into the senseless fucking. The fingers around his thighs grip so much tighter that Kiyoomi can feel them imprint, and he hears a loud growl somewhere between bass and baritone. When he looks at the mirror with wide eyes he sees Atsumu throwing his head back with his mouth open.

“I’m gonna,” Atsumu says, breathless, “come inside ya, ya filthy toy.”

Kiyoomi gasps, and he feels like he’s about to cry because of just how _right_ that feels.

He watches Atsumu with a crumbling expression, watches how the man’s mouth parts open, how his mouth is shaped like a perfect O, how he groans deeply and smacks Kiyoomi’s ass.

The view and the pain are more than enough to send Kiyoomi over the edge of the upward spiral he’s been on since Atsumu’s last declaration. The orgasm is sudden and it washes everything into white and then blinding, dazzling bright colors. For a moment Kiyoomi forgets where or who he is.

✵

They pant together, two men, in the now silent bedroom, on the ruined bedsheets. Atsumu looks down at the sight – Sakusa Kiyoomi undone, hands sprawled on both sides of his head, chest heaving and covered with come. Actually, there is some on his collarbone as well.

Atsumu doesn’t know how he stood that long when this view in front of him… well. When _this view in front of him_ existed. In front of him.

Noticing that he is an incoherent mess, he just stares instead of trying to define the man lying under him. The chest, covered with dark red marks and white liquid. The hair – an absolute mess. The face, cheeks flushed, lips darkened, mouth apart, heavily breathing.

He takes it all in.

He then removes himself slowly, and Sakusa makes a sad sound. Atsumu feels some sort of a relief before collapsing onto the bed next to the man.

He is the first one to collect himself from all the anger and… actually the whole upheaval of emotions tonight. He looks at the man next to him, eyes hazy and spaced out. He presses a warm palm against Sakusa’s cheek.

“You did so well,” Atsumu says, to check if Sakusa is still under.

Sakusa rolls onto his side, eyes fluttering shut and he hums, pushing his cheek into the touch. Yes, he is.

Atsumu stands up. “I’ll be right back.”

Sakusa hums again, and Atsumu goes to gather some wipes from the bathroom, tying up and discarding the condom before wiping himself first and then Sakusa when he gets back to the bed. He makes another trip to the bathroom to dispose of the lube–and–come–soaked paper towels and returns.

“Let’s get ya into the shower this time, yeah?” He says kindly. “Do ya feel ready?”

Sakusa nods, and Atsumu raises him gently, supporting him from the shoulders. He helps Sakusa get on his feet, and slowly guides him towards the bathroom. He washes Sakusa first, rinsing him with warm water to get rid of the excess lube and come. He then pushes the man gently to sit on the bathroom stool, and runs the warm water over his black hair. When Sakusa is thoroughly wet, Atsumu takes the shampoo and gently massages Sakusa’s scalp.

Sakusa lets out a content sigh, and Atsumu smiles. This is the second night he’s washing a spaced out Sakusa in this shower. Well, the first night was definitely not easy. But he managed. Somewhat.

He massages a little more, to make sure everything is thoroughly clean, and rinses the hair.

He sees the conditioner bottle, and reaches to grab it, which he didn’t last time. He pours some conditioner and gently spreads it throughout the hair, trying not to touch the scalp. He then grabs the comb and starts to disentangle the soft, wet curls, starting from the end and moving to the roots.

It melts the last of his anger, to see Sakusa so… pliant. Malleable, even.

When that is over he rinses the hair, walks around and bends down to talk to Sakusa.

“Baby, you need to stand.”

Sakusa’s eyes open slowly. His eyelashes look like art under the droplets, the beauty marks on his forehead begging to be kissed, lips wet.

He loosely and slowly stands up as Atsumu grabs a loofah and pours shower gel onto it. He then lathers him up slowly, not touching the pink and sensitive skin of the man’s ass, some parts bruised slightly. He hardly stops himself from pressing a kiss on the bare and wet shoulder before pressing the loofah onto it. When Sakusa is covered in foam, Atsumu hangs the soapy loofah to get some gel onto his hands, and gently touches the tender skin of the other man’s backside. Sakusa flinches but doesn’t comment.

Apologizing internally, he rinses his hands first and then Sakusa. When he’s ready, Atsumu gets the towels and wraps one around his shoulders, drying him, then wrapping it around his waist and another on his head. He steps onto the cold bathroom tiles to get him to sit down on the shut down toilet lid as Atsumu quickly showers.

When he reemerges with towels around him, he guides Sakusa into the bedroom and urges him to lie down on the clean end of the bed. Sakusa is still hazy, and he doesn’t respond until Atsumu repeats himself, twice.

Atsumu is thankful his sexual forays have given him experience with being under before. It would have broken his heart to not know how to take care of Sakusa right now. He deserves to be taken care of after that scene. _He also deserved to be spanked right into the subspace._

For the first time in the night, Atsumu doesn’t disagree with the voice in his head. Instead, he just smiles.

He gets dressed quickly, and rummages through Sakusa’s bathroom to find any sort of aloe-based lotion, and kneels in front of Sakusa upon his return.

He spreads the gel as gently as he can, but still Sakusa whines lightly and utters painful little moans. The gel is cool, and Atsumu guesses it to be soothing, but after he spreads it he can feel the heat from Sakusa’s skin warming it up quickly.

“You need to lie down for a bit, baby,” he says, and sits next to him, slowly petting him.

After about fifteen very silent minutes of that, Atsumu stands up. He opens the drawer that Sakusa showed him the other day, and takes out the clean pajamas.

He gently helps him rise and dresses Sakusa, gently ruffling the clean curls to shake out some of the remaining wetness.

Then, he looks at the bed and scrunches his nose. He needs to clean that up.

He takes Sakusa by the arm, and brings him to the living room.

“Slow, slow.” Atsumu watches as Sakusa slowly sits down, winces at the pain, and lies onto a cushion sideways. Atsumu takes the chunky blanket from the armrest and wraps Sakusa into it. He opens the TV and after scrolling through the saved content in his DVR, finds out that Sakusa is unsurprisingly huge on documentaries. He puts one on about corn plantations since there seems to be _a lot_ of those about plants. _Must be a side effect of being friends with Ushiwaka._ He goes back to the bedroom.

 _The whole aftercare is very silent,_ he thinks as he enters the room. But then again, what else could he expect from Sakusa?

He looks at the mess of a bed. Well, thank goodness for the comforter. The lube would leak into the mattress otherwise. He quickly rips them off, checking if the bed is wet. It isn’t. He hums. He goes to the huge wardrobe, covering an entire wall, and slides one of the doors. Clothing. He slides the door back and looks at the middle section. _Bingo._

As he guessed, of course, Sakusa has waterproof undersheets for the bed. He takes one out, also takes a bedsheet, a quilt cover and three pillowcases. Who would have thought Sakusa slept with three pillows?

 _Must give him the good sleep to be such a fucking gorgeous asshole,_ he thinks, and makes a face at his own thoughts.

Everything is white. _Every_ bedding material Sakusa has is snow white. Even the quilt cover is white. The contrast is sharp; the bedroom is decorated with dark green and occasional soft browns. The bed stands out. Not to mention the additional help from the mirrors, duplicating the bed in two dimensions.

It’s very fitting.

 _Oh._ A thought strikes him. _It’s so that he can wash the bedsheets at the highest temperature._

Of course.

After making the bed, Atsumu hugs the dirty sheets to his chest and walks towards the guest bathroom, which holds the washing machine and the dryer. He doesn’t start the machine because he still doesn’t know how Sakusa’s way of doing it. Instead, he returns to the living room, where he left Sakusa in the care of the mild documentary.

As he gets closer, Atsumu notices that Sakusa isn’t watching the TV at all, maybe hasn’t been since he left the room. Tears fall, slowly and without hurry, while Sakusa looks at nothing in particular. Oh. His heart clenches. So, _this_ is how the sub drop is going.

Atsumu sits down next to him.

“Omi?” His voice is very gentle, almost like speaking to an injured animal.

Sakusa doesn’t respond for a second, and then slowly turns his head.

“Hmmm?”

“How are ya feeling?”

“Sad.” Another drop falls from an unblinking eye.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I just…” Sakusa’s voice wavers. “It felt so _beautiful.”_

“Ah, c’mere,” Atsumu says, gently pulling the man closer. He prays to all the deities he knows for Sakusa’s love language to be physical contact or words of affirmation, no matter how _ironic_ it is to wish that. Although Atsumu is calm and he knew a bad sub drop was possible, they didn’t _fucking talk_ about this beforehand and he doesn’t feel okay with this. He should have known what comfort meant for this man before the situation actually became real.

But Atsumu didn’t know Sakusa would go directly into subspace in their first barely–intense scene.

Sakusa, despite all his worries, shuffles a little to get comfortable, then leans his head against Atsumu’s naked chest. He sniffs and sighs.

“It felt so _...”_ Sakusa pauses, looking for a word, and drops the sentence altogether. “I felt _alive.”_

“That’s wonderful, baby.”

“But what if,” and he swallows thickly, “What if it never happens again?”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“What if you _leave?_ And take the feeling with you?”

Oh.

“I’m not leaving anytime soon, Kiyoomi,” he says as he gently pets Sakusa’s damp hair with his right hand, drawing lazy circles on Sakusa’s back with his left.

“You can,” Sakusa murmurs to his chest. Atsumu can feel another tear fall, travelling slowly on his chest to his stomach. “Everybody does.”

Atsumu just hugs him tighter, placing a kiss on top of Sakusa’s head.

“Who hurt you?” he asks, finally.

And at that, Sakusa starts sobbing.

“Oh, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, sorrow seeping from his voice. He mindlessly kisses the black curls, and brings his right hand to cup Sakusa’s cheek. _God_ it hurts to see him like this. Atsumu feels powerless in the shadow of Sakusa’s fears, and to see him being engulfed by them. It’s a gut punch.

Sakusa is shaking with racking sobs, and he brings the heels of his palms onto his forehead, as if to protect himself or hold his thoughts together. Or both. Atsumu hooks a finger under his chin, and slowly raises the wet face.

A thought about lamenting Sakusa for being so pretty even while crying dashes through his mind but is left unattended.

“Baby,” Atsumu tries to gain his attention. “Kiyoomi. I’m here. Hey. Just look at me, and breathe.”

Sakusa tries to breathe, a sob interrupting the deep inhale, and his face crumbles as he tries to regain his composure.

When he succeeds at regulating his breathing, he raises his eyes to look at Atsumu, and Atsumu is overcome with the fear that shines through Kiyoomi’s deep, black eyes. They look at him desperately, completely hopeless behind shiny eyelashes. It hurts to see him like this, although Atsumu knows that this is just a hormonal imbalance, that the intensity of the scene caused Kiyoomi’s body release adrenaline and endorphin in spikes, and he knows that this reaction is because the chemical levels have crashed. Still, it knocks the air out of him to see him suffer like this, no matter what.

Atsumu closes his eyes and kisses Sakusa on the forehead, exactly on the two beauty marks. He peppers kisses all over Sakusa’s face, kissing him on his temples, _your thoughts,_ kissing him on the cheek, _your smile,_ kissing him at the corner of his lips, _your words,_ on his chin, on his jawline, _your neck,_ on his eyes, _your stare,_ on his nose. _Keep breathing. Please._

He doesn’t kiss him on the lips.

He holds Sakusa’s face in his palm, the cool and wet skin leaning into his touch.

“You’re shivering. Let’s get ya into bed.”

Sakusa shakes his head.

“Come on, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says. “I promise to stay in bed with ya.”

Cuddling releases endorphins. Atsumu can’t do much about adrenaline right now.

“Okay, then.” His voice is somewhat stronger and more stable.

They rise slowly, Atsumu wrapping the blanket more snugly around him.

When they make it to the bed, Atsumu opens the covers, lets Sakusa crawl onto the bed and lie face down. He sits next to him, pulls the quilt onto them and wraps an arm around Sakusa’s defined upper back, hand resting on the old t–shirt covering his shoulder blade as he tugs him in closer.

Sakusa complies easily, practically lying half on top of Atsumu with his left knee in between thighs and his cheek and left hand on the bare chest. Atsumu feels his chest warming, and vaguely thinks about whether Sakusa will hear his heart rate and be alarmed, but the man on his chest doesn’t say a word, just curls his fingers against his skin.

Atsumu raises his right hand to play with the black curls, absolutely destroying their delicate form of coiling around each other. He presses Sakusa’s head towards his chest, closing his eyes and resting his chin on top of the hair. It feels tender, genuine. It feels safe. Which is funny, since Sakusa is the one who’s supposed to feel safe right now.

But Sakusa seems content. His breathing is now stable, his body relaxed. He is drawing random shapes onto Atsumu’s chest, and Atsumu closes his eyes and lets it flow.

✵

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but it feels like it’s been an eternity when Atsumu hears the knocking at the door. He gently detangles himself from Sakusa, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead.

“I’ll be right back.”

Sakusa nods with a relaxed expression on his face, looking so small but comfortable in the middle of the quilt and blanket.

Atsumu hurries to the door, looking through the peephole and sees a man, standing nervously in his blue lined pajamas. He opens it slightly and cranes his neck to greet him.

“Hello.”

“Hi! I’m Usui Shiro, your next-door neighbor,” the man squeaks.

“I am Atsumu. How can I help ya?” Atsumu says with a smile he knows to be charming.

“Um… is everything alright?”

“Yeah? Why?” Atsumu’s forehead creases with confusion.

“I heard screaming from your flat,” he says bluntly, although hurrying and tumbling over the words.

“What screami– _oh.”_

The silence that follows is tense, and Atsumu wants to laugh so badly, but he cannot. He purses his lips as he tries to think fast, now opening the door completely, but then the man’s eyes slide lower, focusing on Atsumu’s bare chest and the dark marks on them. A furious blush seizes his face. 

“Oh,” is all he can say.

“Everything’s fine, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Atsumu says with an apologetic smile, glad that the _situation_ is understood.

“Could you… um…” Oh, he is stammering now.

Atsumu hears shuffling, and turns his head to see Sakusa walking towards him with the blanket on his shoulders. He looks much better, his stance confident and walking easily. Relief washes over Atsumu as he realizes the focused gaze in Sakusa’s eyes. He is back, calm and collected. Except for his hair. It is a _complete_ mess, and Atsumu bites the inside of his cheek to not laugh at the comedy of the scene and honestly, at the ridiculous relief that he’s still basking in.

“What’s the matter?” Sakusa steps into the field of view of the neighbour. The neighbour’s eyes dart between Sakusa’s hair and the one hickey on the exposed collar bone right above his shirt’s soft collar. The man blushes even more. Atsumu, refocusing on the situation, thinks he might actually faint.

“Um, this gentleman apparently heard loud noises coming from our flat, honey,” Atsumu says with a plastic smile.

Sakusa glares at him but returns his gaze, much kinder, to the neighbour. The man opens and closes his mouth several times.

“Uh… I understand the situation, Sakusa–san,” he finally says. “But could you… keep it down?.. a little I mean… I don’t…”

“Of course, Usui–san,” Sakusa says, kind and apologetic. “We will be more careful next time.”

_Next time._

“I apologize for disturbing you. Have a good evening,” the man squeaks again and scurries off to his flat.

Atsumu closes the door, and keeps it in himself for only a few seconds before letting loose a booming fit of laughter.

“What did he say exactly?” Sakusa asks, brow raised.

“Apparently Omi–omi, ya were so loud that yer screams freaked out the neighbors,” Atsumu says in between his laughter.

Sakusa suppresses a smile, pursing his lips.

Atsumu is wheezing. “Like… how did you… how loud exactly…. soundproof bedroom… must….” He just can’t complete his sentences or string them, and he bends over and slaps his thigh as he gets more hysterical.

And apparently, it’s infectious, because then Kiyoomi laughs; free, loud, joyful.

Atsumu looks at him with tears in his eyes, and it takes some time for both of them to calm down. As the echoes of their mingled laughter and the ghost of Atsumu’s abs hurting linger together in the air, he wipes away his tears with one hand and speaks with a big smile.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” Sakusa says, smiling slightly, if it could be called a smile. “Going to bed was a good idea.”

Atsumu smiles. “Okay.”

And he turns to leave.

“Atsumu.”

He turns back with a questioning look, suddenly deprived of all humor, remembering this is the exact place that held the combustion between them a couple hours ago. Sakusa is fully sober, so why is he calling him by his first name?

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Sakusa says, softly, indecipherable.

Atsumu smiles, genuine and warm. “Always.”

 _You mean until he’s healed?_ asks a voice in his head.

Atsumu grunts internally and then heads to the guest bedroom, suddenly feeling the exhaustion tugging him, weighing on his ankles and shoulders. “Wake me up if ya can’t sleep.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond, and Atsumu looks at him over his shoulder to find that he’s fiddling with the blanket. He stops, but doesn’t ask it out loud.

“Could you…” Sakusa raises his eyes, clearly hoping that he’s not going to have to say it aloud.

Well, he can hope. It ain’t gonna happen.

“Yes?” Atsumu leads him on.

Sakusa glares at him knowingly. _I’m aware of what you’re doing._

 _And what are you going to do about it?_ Atsumu glares back.

“Sleep with me,” Sakusa finishes the sentence.

“Already did that. You were in subspace.”

 _“Miya,”_ Sakusa snarls.

Atsumu inhales deeply, closing his eyes, and walks towards the guest bedroom.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa corrects himself. “Please.”

Atsumu stops in his tracks and feels a smile widening more and more on his face. He doesn’t turn around, but looks at Sakusa over his shoulder. “Wasn’t so hard to ask now, was it?”

Sakusa grunts. “Do you have to do this?”

“Yeah Omi, I do,” Atsumu grins, body slightly turned now. “If you insist so much, I’ll be in bed waiting for you. Always thought a harem was yer thing.”

Sakusa grumbles but Atsumu can hear the relief in it. “Too risky. But thanks, I guess.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply, and walks to let himself onto the bed, the anxiety of not knowing what is happening and _why_ it is happening clawing at the back of his head. He tries to let them go, and manages somewhat until he sees Kiyoomi in the dim air of the fairy lights.

He doesn’t think much after that, really.

He just feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> this wouldn't be here if it weren't for the wonderful response i got. but know that i'm always hungry for more :P 
> 
> yeah, unashamedly asking for attention. if that ain't my thing, man.
> 
> JUST SCREAM THINGS AT ME IN COMMENTS! THEY MAKE MY DAY!
> 
> you can also scream at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mamabrainrot)


	4. heartwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels natural. 
> 
> Maybe that is how people feel while they live their perfectly mundane, content, and happy lives until some disaster comes and wipes away everything it can put its filthy, carnivorous hands on. Maybe that ignorance, as stupidly joyful as it is, is the one thing you can enjoy only as long as it lasts.
> 
> And just like innocence, you cannot know how it defines you before you actually lose it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so glad I could bring this chapter to you. It took me a lot of hurdles and some time, but it’s here! I also had a coffee tipping incident with my computer and I almost was crying because there is no way I could get it repaired without paying obnoxious amounts, but lo and behold -- it worked after a day of resting! So, one lesson learned from this: PLUG OUT your computer if you poured liquid over it, AND DON’T TRY TO OPEN IT UNTIL A DAY LATER. Even if you die of your curiosity. DO NOT OPEN IT.
> 
> Alright, about the fic. I have a playlist named “what the brownie night did to atsumu” and it was on loop throughout this entire chapter. Especially Skinny Love by Bon Iver just made me feel all the fluff and love I harbor for these two, so if you want to listen to it, here it is:  
> [what the brownie night did to atsumu](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4zEmNDk7uAEuCjuIYpmD3y)
> 
> (do not perceive me shamelessly promoting my playlists, I JUST WANT TO SHARE THE VIBE--)
> 
> for fellow foreigners to the japanese culture, this is just information verbatim from Wikipedia so that you don’t read it and go “huh?”
> 
> Pink film (ピンク映画, Pinku eiga) in its broadest sense includes almost any Japanese theatrical film that includes nudity (hence 'pink') or deals with sexual content.  
> The "pink film," or "eroduction" (erotic production) as it was first called, is a cinematic genre without an exact equivalent in the West. Though called pornography, the terms "erotica", "soft porn" and "sexploitation" have been suggested as more appropriate, although none of these precisely matches the pink film genre.
> 
> man, writing this fic reminds me of the times when I open two tabs of the same fic, one for reading, the other for copying and pasting the parts I want to scream about into the comments section. I loved writing it. I hope you love reading it.
> 
> also beware: mentions of past atsuhina crumbs, and a train of ANGST, IF YOU DIDN’T SEE ME SCREAMING ABOUT IT ON TWITTER.
> 
> let’s goo!

It feels natural.

Maybe that is how people feel while they live their perfectly mundane, content, and happy lives until some disaster comes and wipes away everything it can put its filthy, carnivorous hands on. Maybe that ignorance, as stupidly joyful as it is, is the one thing you can enjoy only as long as it lasts.

And just like innocence, you cannot know how it defines you before you actually lose it.

It feels like the oblivious, pure shock of the antelopes when the lionesses finally attack the herd. It feels also like the unraised question of “Why didn’t the documentary cameraman save the animals by warning them?” It holds many emotions within itself; the objection, the frustration, the awe in watching the blood spill, the pity - and also the urge to see the fit prevail.

But Kiyoomi knows. He has always known that the weak do not survive, and mercy is not in the inborn features or traits of natural creatures. So he is not surprised by how it unfolds, and he feels actually rather intrigued by the fact that…it feels _natural._

Just like the sunny day that sprinkles shards of warmth onto your chest, bringing spring into it, right before the storm.

All this catastrophe. This major, splendid, magnificent crash and the wreck it leaves behind, each part of it so haunting that he cannot pry his eyes away or command his memory to erase them. As if even the hurting itself is worth cherishing and reliving the memory. As if – if he forgot, if he let what happened slip between the fingers of his memory like sand, as if he did not walk this earth withholding the memories he has - he will betray everything that made him feel alive.

Or maybe that is what Kiyoomi tells himself when he gazes absentmindedly at the documentary, _The Tallest Trees to Live,_ registering nothing with one hand on his chest where he can feel an abstract hole aching. Even the pain feels like he’s still a part of it. And he grunts with his palms pressed onto his eyes when he notices that he doesn’t want to let go.

✵

It all begins with an innocent, pure, warm morning that makes Kiyoomi’s skin prickle with a sensation of blood draining from his face, and it feels funny to touch the tingling. He opens his eyes to find Atsumu looking at him with humor dancing in his features. He is laying face down on the bed with one cheek on the pillow, watching Kiyoomi with a gaze that softens immediately when their eyes meet, his expression relaxing from humor to gentleness. He presents Kiyoomi with such a soft smile that Kiyoomi suddenly wonders how many other people have seen this and still are not in love with Miya Atsumu.

He does not have the time to think on that though, because Atsumu’s smile coaxes something similar from him, and he finds himself warm and bubbly inside. Interesting. He can’t recall feeling like this with another person in his bed before.

It might actually be because of the fact that he does not, except for extreme circumstances, let his sexual partners sleep in his bed. That’s probably why.

Atsumu raises his left hand, and Kiyoomi is for one second distracted by its reflection on the mirror behind him where the sunlight dances on the faint hair on Atsumu’s forearm, creating shadows, and one three-lined scratch mark on his tricep. Atsumu inches his hand towards him, and Kiyoomi closes his eyes, expecting to feel the fingers caressing his cheek. Instead, he scowls and opens his eyes in annoyance when Atsumu’s hand shuffles his hair into an unmistakable mess of a bird’s nest.

“Mornin’, Omi,” Atsumu greets him with the soft smile still on his face, his hand retreating.

Kiyoomi cannot hold himself back from smiling back again. “Good morning, Atsumu.”

They stare at each other in silence, the sun graciously nuzzling them through the window and warming up their exposed skin, the quilt keeping the internal warmth intact where they are under it. It’s a silent, white, warm morning. Atsumu looks sheepish, sleepy, and happy; Kiyoomi for one second reconsiders his judgement of Atsumu not being a morning person on the first morning they had together.

Maybe he shouldn’t categorize him so fast.

“Do ya feel like breakfast?”

“No,” Kiyoomi replies after a second’s thought. “I don’t usually eat much immediately after I wake up.”

“Coffee then,” Atsumu replies, arms stretching with his wrists on top of the headboard, and Kiyoomi wordlessly watches as the man’s back muscles flex and relax. Atsumu flips, reaches for the quilt, and hops down at the end of the bed.

“Black espresso?”

“Yes, please.”

Atsumu hums and leaves the room, leaving Kiyoomi behind to close his eyes, wiggle his feet underneath the quilt and feel the smooth bed sheet, stretch his arms across the bed and just relax.

It’s a lazy morning, too.

When Kiyoomi finally rolls out of the bed and walks towards the smell of coffee, he remembers the fight they had in the hallway last night, shooting a look at the exact point on the wall where Atsumu slammed him. It feels like they’ve made up now, pieces falling back into place.

He finds Atsumu sitting on the counter, his head turned to take in the view from the wide window. He is holding a cup of coffee, and another cup rests on the island, steam rising from it, waiting for Kiyoomi.

He thanks Atsumu before sitting on a stool and taking a sip from the coffee. It’s fresh, hot, and softer than how Kiyoomi actually makes it.

“Did you put less coffee in this?”

“I can’t drink pure ratsbane like ya do. Some of us actually have taste buds.”

Kiyoomi scoffs at that, sipping his coffee once again and maybe…finding the softer taste more enjoyable. It’s not as sharp a taste as he’s used to, but it helps him savor the flavor of the coffee more.

He doesn’t comment on it though. Not when Atsumu is watching him like that.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Atsumu’s eyes soften somehow, but his face lights up. “Yer hair. A complete wreck.”

“Thanks to a _special_ someone,” Kiyoomi mumbles into his coffee cup.

“Aww, Omi,” Atsumu sing-songs. “You don’t have to show yer affection like that.”

“Like what, Atsumu-kun?” Kiyoomi asks, humiliatingly humorous.

“With all those little words and all. Ya can say it out loud. Ya like me.”

“I don’t despise being around you, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

Atsumu laughs then, quirking Kiyoomi’s lip into a halfway smirk while sipping his coffee. “That’ll do, Omi-kun.”

✵

The day passes uneventfully and without any hurry, the relief of resolving last night’s tension seeming to hang heavily in the guts of the both of them.

Atsumu has, much to Kiyoomi’s disapproval, brownies for breakfast and claims it’s at least some carbs, and ignores the half ball of butter they put in it. He then does the dishes, playing some electronic music in the background that sounds like garbage to Kiyoomi, and moves onto the bedroom to make the bed.

When all is done, he plops down onto the sofa next to Kiyoomi and flings his legs onto his lap without any permission. When Kiyoomi looks up from his book, he sees Atsumu’s cocky grin and hooded eyes, and he knows immediately that this is not going to end well.

“What?”

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu starts, his grin widening. “Ya wanna watch another horror movie with me?”

“No.” The answer is absolute and unwavering.

“Omi-omi,” Atsumu insists, voice playful and stubborn. “Ya _loved_ it. Ya couldn’t even take yer eyes away.”

“No I did not.”

“Ya did.”

“No.”

“Did.”

“Did _not.”_

 _“Omi-kuuuunnnnn,”_ Atsumu whines, puppy eyes pleading. “I’ll let ya snuggle.”

“Why would I _want_ that?” Kiyoomi asks, scrunching his nose.

“Ya liked iitttt,” Atsumu keeps pushing. “Ya liked both the movie and the snuggling. Admit it.”

“You know what I would like?” Kiyoomi asks, watching Atsumu perk up with hopeful eyes.

“Yeah?”

“For you to let me be so I can _read_ my book.”

Atsumu pouts. He really does look like a seven-year-old, which reminds Kiyoomi of the flour fight they had last night. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he refocuses on his book, ignoring Atsumu’s heavy legs.

The passing minutes are restless; Kiyoomi is aware he’s being watched but tries not to show any sign of distraction. Nonetheless, he cannot focus on reading when he’s watched like that. He finally snaps the book with a thick thud, and stares at Atsumu. “What.”

“Please?” Atsumu asks, eyes shiny and pleading. “There is this _classic_ movie, and honestly, ya shouldn’t be living on without watching it.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond. He just stares at Atsumu.

“It’s _exemplary._ You’ll lack as a human being if ya don’t watch it. It’s to horror what _Star Wars_ is to sci-fi.”

“Is it that good of a movie that you’re using proper vocabulary?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow.

“Decide for yerself after ya watch it,” Atsumu replies, his grin settling back onto his face.

Kiyoomi sighs in defeat. Atsumu, somewhat disturbingly, has this effect on him. Maybe it’s his curiosity about the actual movie, but seeing Atsumu so excited about something makes Kiyoomi want to pursue it, to learn more about it, and to be able to share the excitement and passion with Atsumu.

“Fine.” His voice is flat, and it does not give away a single thought.

Atsumu practically springs out of the sofa, and grabs the remote to search for the movie. “Ya want popcorn?”

“No, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a real offer anyway, Omi,” Atsumu says, his grin blown wide on his face, too confident for his own sake. “Ya won’t be able to eat much.” He then proceeds to draw the blackout curtains, leaving them in heavy darkness.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes at that. “It cannot be worse than _The Ring.”_

✵

It is worse than _The Ring._

Kiyoomi is not aware of what’s going on at first. When they see the sled dog shivering in a blizzard, he almost sticks his bottom lip out. “Wish they took the dog in.”

Atsumu just snickers at him.

Kiyoomi lifts his head, offended. “You would leave a dog out in a snowstorm to die?”

Atsumu keeps giggling. “Such altruism. Being that good might kill ya.”

Kiyoomi shoots him a look. “Dogs deserve more love than humans do.”

“Sure.”

As the movie unfolds, Kiyoomi begins to understand why Atsumu was snickering — it wasn’t his natural offensiveness, he was actually…he said it literally.

Being good actually _kills_ them.

So as Kiyoomi watches in horror, the scientists and workers in the Antarctic base start murdering each other, completely surrounded by the paranoia that any of them could be the monster that entered the base in the form of the dog they rescued. The _thing,_ as they call it, that is actually not a dog but a shape-shifting alien that can imitate anything perfectly.

The tension is so tangible that it’s making Kiyoomi itch.

Not much happens during the first hour of the movie, though. Kiyoomi clutches the fleece blanket on his shoulders for protection, but there is nothing sudden or physical to be protected from — just the tension of everybody doubting each other, trying to figure out _who_ is the imitator, and who is really trying to get rid of the creature.

So Kiyoomi inhales sharply, almost choking on his breath when two men attack another one from behind, killing him viciously. And without any time for his heart to stop racing, the main jumpscare of the movie appears so bloodily and suddenly that Kiyoomi screams and instinctively curls under Atsumu’s arm as a man’s chest transforms into a huge mouth and chews off both of the other’s arms. Kiyoomi watches it all from in between his fingers, shivering, breaths short and trembling.

Atsumu protectively coils one arm around his shaking figure, and Kiyoomi pulls his knees up to his chest under the blanket, small and terrified. The contact gives him a moderate sense of safety, and Kiyoomi unconsciously tries to make the most of it, indulging in the watchful warmth of Atsumu.

He almost sobs when some blood jumps out of a petri-dish with a _shriek,_ transforming into a creature of its own. He growls into Atsumu’s chest with frustration, unable to make the words, and almost unable to register them with the ringing in his ears.

“Ya wanna stop?” Atsumu asks gently.

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “I want to see how it ends.”

“Okay.”

Two more gasp-and-shriek-inducing scenes later Kiyoomi is regretting his decision, practically buried in the blanket, facing Atsumu’s chest with Atsumu’s arm over his back. He feels like sobbing. This is too much. The paranoia, the tension, the sudden _murdering_ and the _reactions_ that come out of nowhere. Kiyoomi’s heart cannot take this. He would pick _The Ring_ over this anytime. This is psychological horror combined with jumpscares.

The relief when the movie actually ends is overwhelming as the two remaining men share some scotch before inevitably freezing to death.

Kiyoomi breathes with measure, kind of wanting to disappear in the safety of Atsumu right now. He is warm under the blanket, but his toes are ice-cold, his palms sweaty. He whines into Atsumu’s chest through the fleece and the t-shirt separating them. Atsumu slowly rubs his back, all cockiness gone.

“I don’t want to watch another horror movie ever again,” Kiyoomi mumbles, muffled and small.

“Ya like it though,” comes a soft answer, not truly objecting but merely stating a fact.

Kiyoomi groans, conflicted by his own curiosity and the pain it brings, and doesn’t answer. He cannot answer, to be truthful. He just basks in Atsumu’s warmth, his hands drawing gentle circles on his back, and relaxes his ball form a little, stretching his legs out.

Atsumu grabs his knee, and brings both of Kiyoomi’s legs onto his lap, petting him from his thighs to his ankles in slow, linear motions. Kiyoomi lets himself relax into the soft, tender strokes with a steady and comforting rhythm. He lets his head drop onto Atsumu’s shoulder, inhaling the soft scent of his own fabric softener and the notes of orange and bergamot of his guest body wash on Atsumu’s skin. He keeps inhaling it where it’s exposed to Kiyoomi’s damp breaths above the stretched collar of the t-shirt. Kiyoomi’s t-shirt, to be exact. He prefers oversized t-shirts to wear at home but his understanding of oversized seems to be a good fit on Atsumu. The t-shirt sits comfortably on his chest, snug on Atsumu’s defined deltoid muscles; the fabric shifts every time Atsumu moves his hand, revealing the strength of his lightly flexing biceps. Kiyoomi suddenly feels the urge to touch, to feel the warm, natural skin-to-skin contact; and, snaking his hand under the hem of the t-shirt, places his bandaged hand on the lower end of Atsumu’s oblique muscle.

Atsumu doesn’t react at all, continuing his petting, his head resting lightly on top of Sakusa’s hair. Kiyoomi closes his eyes, the gentle coddling melting away the last of his tension and horror, and relaxes his shoulders completely.

He could watch more horror movies, if all of them would end like this.

✵

They stay in the same position until Atsumu shifts, stripping Sakusa of the blanket to wrap both of them in it. Sakusa’s breaths have evened out, and he only opens his eyes for a few seconds before placing his cheek back on its spot on Atsumu’s chest.

Atsumu gently turns them, so that his back is against the corner of the sofa and Sakusa is still half on top of him. He can feel the bandaged hand touching his stomach, calmly resting there as if it is always meant to.

The sudden bouts of emotions that seem to roll in with passion and crash violently on Atsumu’s cliffs are not new things, but they are definitely so much more intense when he’s with this man. He doesn’t have to look to see exactly how Sakusa is positioned. He can feel Sakusa’s forehead against his own neck and his cheek lightly touching Atsumu’s exposed collarbone, and for some reason it feels so close, so _intimate,_ that Atsumu can feel his own heart breaking. It feels so right, so beautiful that it makes him want to cry for it before trying to understand it.

He wants to stay here forever. As clichéd and horribly sweet as that is, he really does. He doesn’t want to break this bubble of vulnerability and warmth. He doesn’t want to go back to their regular lives to see Sakusa from practice to practice, with hard glares, disgusted expressions and silent nods. He doesn’t want to stop visiting Sakusa every day to learn that he is actually a rather touch-starved person with a love language of physical intimacy.

He wants to stay more, to learn more, to get to know every smooth and rough edge this man on his chest can show him. He remembers how he peeled Sakusa’s hand away from his mouth last night. He wants to peel Sakusa’s defenses away in exactly the same way, so deeply that he sees the man he saw when they were baking brownies, when he kissed Atsumu on the bed, when, just now, he’s sleeping on his chest.

God, he’s fucked.

But for the first time, is he really? Sakusa is right here. He wouldn’t have asked Atsumu to stay if he wasn’t comfortable doing so. He wouldn’t have agreed to watch another horror movie if he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t be touching Atsumu if he didn’t like to. 

Yet he’s still here, on Atsumu’s chest, one hand on his skin, breathing evenly like he’s the safest he can be.

Is Atsumu reading too much into it? He tries to be objective, he tries to not let his hopes soar high only to watch them crash down.

But the hope bubbling inside him will not cease. It screams happily about Sakusa sleeping with him, _literally_ sleeping on him with as much contact as possible. With his thighs half on Atsumu’s lap, one unconscious hand wrapped around Atsumu’s waist and the other resting on Atsumu’s skin, he is… he fits. _They_ fit. It feels right. Atsumu doesn’t know how to explain it further.

Does he have to? He doesn’t think so. The way Sakusa unconsciously snuggles further into him in his sleep, the way he watches Atsumu when he is cooking, the laugh that Sakusa let out after the neighbor’s visit, the “next time.” These things give Atsumu an irrevocable kind of hope. Maybe it is going to happen. For real.

Maybe, just _maybe,_ Sakusa loves him back. Or is beginning to.

And that is more than enough for Atsumu to love him with every fiber of his being. Not that he has a choice, anyway.

But even if he could, he wouldn’t choose another way.

✵

When Kiyoomi stirs and opens his eyes he’s alone; the living room is still dark but the smell of vegetables and meat is wafting through the air. He stretches on the sofa, noticing the pillow under his head, and snuggles a bit more into the comfort of the blanket. It feels lazy, heavy. He’s not worrying about things. He knows Atsumu is cooking, he can hear him singing along to something, and things are so in place that he just doesn’t want to change anything.

It is so easy to yield to this feeling.

After a few minutes, he decides to go and see what Atsumu is up to. He shivers for a second after letting go of the blanket, and pads silently towards the kitchen.

The kitchen is terribly bright, and Kiyoomi has to stand a few seconds to let his eyes adjust back into the natural light of the afternoon. When he can properly see without his head hurting, he looks at Atsumu wearing Kiyoomi’s black apron, his t-shirt absent, back muscles shifting and bending with his chopping and grabbing movements. He sees the ceramic pot sitting on the stove, and figures Atsumu is cooking a _nabemono._

“One-pot dish? You grew lazy so quickly?” His voice comes out hoarser and sleepier than he intends to, and Kiyoomi clears his throat as Atsumu turns his head to smile at him, bright and at ease.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Atsumu greets him, affectionate, and Kiyoomi cannot help the warmth in his chest, but he keeps his voice steady.

“Why’d you let me sleep for so long?”

“Yer a growin’ and healin’ boy,” Atsumu says, a terrible imitation of what Kiyoomi presumes to be his mother’s version of those words. “Besides, the best way to put a horrifying experience behind ya is to sleep on it a lil’.”

Kiyoomi hums to that, no words necessary to acknowledge Atsumu’s explanation, and sits on the bar stool, noticing that he really does feel less terrible about the movie after sleeping.

It is becoming routine, much to Kiyoomi’s obliviousness, though he can feel the ease of doing something regular in his chest. Kiyoomi is again sitting on the stools in his own kitchen, watching Atsumu sing along to something while cooking, like he’s been doing for the past few weeks. This time, it’s some soft, acoustic music to which he doesn’t know the language but understands is English after a couple of seconds of careful listening.

He places his hands carefully on the marble of the counter, and examines them. After a while of thoughtful silence, he unwraps the bandages to find that the inflammation and bruising are almost completely gone. Maybe the indents and swelling he’s seeing is because of the wrappings, but Kiyoomi figures he’ll just wait a while to make sure. There is no discoloration though, that’s for certain.

“I think my hand is almost healed,” Kiyoomi says absent-mindedly, barely heard over the music and humming swirling around in the kitchen.

“Hm?” Atsumu asks, not lifting his head from the onions he’s chopping.

“My hand,” Kiyoomi repeats, watching Atsumu’s figure now, with another sudden surge of warmth to see Atsumu so focused and relaxed next to him. It is nothing like the moments where he sets to Kiyoomi with utmost attention and focus; Atsumu is relaxed, preoccupied with chopping, cooking for both of them, stopping his humming along to ask Kiyoomi to repeat his words. It’s hard to explain. It’s… different. That’s all Kiyoomi can say. “I think it’s almost done healing,” he continues, breaking his own train of thought. 

“Oh,” Atsumu says, his voice a bit hesitant, and his motions slow down a little. Kiyoomi frowns for a second, but before he can say anything about it, the irregularity in Atsumu’s motions is gone. “Didja have an appointment with the doctor?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi replies, checking his phone to make sure of the date. “It’s in two days. On Friday.”

“Okay. Ya want me to drive ya there?”

“That would be helpful,” Kiyoomi answers after a second of consideration. “I’m almost certain I can drive now, but let’s make sure everything’s in place.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu replies, dumping the onions into the pot.

✵

After the delicious late lunch they have, specifically the _sukiyaki_ where Kiyoomi agrees to dip the meat into the egg yolk only after Atsumu rolls his eyes and tells him that he, of course, went out and bought pre-pasteurized eggs for this dish, Kiyoomi retreats to the sofa to pick up his book. Atsumu flops down next to him, scrolling mindlessly on some app, and snickers every now and then at something.

They spend a good part of the afternoon doing that, in comfortable silence without the need to say anything. The curtains are drawn back now and Kiyoomi sees that the sun is setting when he glances at the window on his way back from the restroom. When will Atsumu leave?

Then, he notices, Kiyoomi doesn’t mind if Atsumu stays. Atsumu turns out to be surprisingly okay with Kiyoomi taking his personal time alone without endlessly asking if everything’s okay or if he wants to do something with him. Which is something Kiyoomi has never encountered with his partners before; they would always get worried whenever Kiyoomi told them he needed some time alone, or some quietude. Atsumu seems to understand that without any explanation given to him. And with that, Kiyoomi decides he’s comfortable if he stays, and tries not to think about if Atsumu wants to leave.

But when he looks at Atsumu’s relaxed figure lying down on the sofa with his feet kicking the air, he thinks that Atsumu doesn’t look like he’s ready or willing to go. He maybe, just maybe hopes that Atsumu doesn’t want to.

Suddenly, his own disturbingly vulnerable sentence echoes in his mind — _“What if you leave… and take the feeling with you?”_

Kiyoomi bites his lip, staring at an unaware Atsumu from the entryway arch of the living room. Maybe it’s the silence, or the tension, but it takes a few seconds before Atsumu lifts his head and his eyes widen with surprise to see Kiyoomi just standing there, looking at him.

“Everything okay?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t leave his spot, and doesn’t answer for a few long moments. When he finally does, it takes quite an unnoticed effort to keep his voice stable. “Don’t you have anything you need to go back home for?”

Atsumu stops kicking his feet, and they fall down onto the sofa with a soft thud. He tilts his head to the side, his expression suddenly flat, carefully constructed to not let anything to be seen. Kiyoomi hates it. He hates it with all his guts.

“If ya want me to leave, just say it out loud,” Atsumu commands, his voice devoid of all the comfort and acceptance that surrounded them the whole day. Kiyoomi’s stomach turns.

“If I didn’t say that...” Kiyoomi says, his voice careful, “...don’t deduce that I said it. I just asked a question.”

 _“If_ that’s the case,” Atsumu says, mockingly pressing on the ‘if’, “I have Esther. She needs me back daily.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widen at the sudden realization, and he cannot keep his voice from rising suddenly. “You have a _girlfriend_ whom you live with?”

At that, Atsumu lets out an annoying laugh, suddenly breaking the tension in the room. He studies Kiyoomi’s shocked face for a while before answering. “Omi-kun, look at yer face-”

Kiyoomi leaves his spot, scowling, and picking up his book to perch himself on top of the armrest of the sofa.

Atsumu replies with a similarly irritating smile. “Omi-omi, she’s my plant. I need to water her.”

Kiyoomi lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, and squints at Atsumu. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

Atsumu throws his head back and lets out a rumbling laughter. Kiyoomi smacks his arm with the book he has been fiddling with.

“Alright,” Atsumu says, suddenly lifting himself up and jumping to stand with a sort of rare athleticism which Kiyoomi watches with unbidden hunger. “I’m gonna take a shower and then make dinner.”

He pauses before passing by Kiyoomi, and gently peels his right hand from the book. Kiyoomi’s breath catches as he looks at Atsumu, inspecting his hand with focus. “It looks much better, yeah. Do ya want me to bandage it still?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Kiyoomi replies, voice a bit strained. Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice. “The appointment is in two days, anyway.”

“‘Kay,” Atsumu replies, letting go of his hand and walking past him. Kiyoomi hears the shower starting and Atsumu humming along, again, to something entirely different.

He takes in a deep inhale, lifting his eyebrows and relaxing them back down to feel his face. He stands, walking around the living room to find something to kill time with.

✵

When Atsumu comes out of the shower with one towel around his waist and one around his neck, Kiyoomi’s absent–mindedly watching a documentary about the underwater flora. His eyes dart to Atsumu when he enters the living room, barefoot, and does a double take. His eyes scan the athlete’s form, and he feels the stir of excitement.

He doesn’t judge himself for being attracted to Atsumu, not at all. Anyone who has their eyesight properly checked would understand. And to have Atsumu in his house, half-naked, covered in love bites from a night with Kiyoomi, well. He can’t be blamed. He is only human, after all.

Atsumu turns around, the towels flying in the air with him. He sounds confused. “I didn’t bring a bag, I think.”

“No, you didn’t,” Kiyoomi adds to his train of thought.

“Okay…” Atsumu says, clearly considering what to wear. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.

“You can get some clothes from my drawer,” Kiyoomi offers to ease his conflict.

“Yeah,” Atsumu replies, lost in thought. He leaves his phone on the coffee table to turn and head to Kiyoomi’s bedroom, but as soon as he stands straight the phone rings. He replies easily. “Hey, Shoyo!”

There is a hectic and spirited flow of speech blaring through the phone, but Kiyoomi is too lost in watching a drop of water disappear under the towel on Atsumu’s waist. He chances a glance on the man’s face, noting that he’s looking at a wall with a frown, and takes it upon himself to undo the towel and inch closer.

Atsumu looks at him, completely distracted with the phone call and his frown deepens as if asking him what he’s doing. Kiyoomi looks at him in the eye, and takes Atsumu’s soft cock into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue.

Atsumu gasps, almost dropping the phone, and manages to choke out a reply to Hinata. “When didja want to go out celebrating again?”

Hinata replies with enthusiasm, and Atsumu smiles, but the expression shatters when Kiyoomi brings one hand down to gently play with his balls.

“O-o-kay, and-”

Hinata interrupts him, not actually speaking to Atsumu but apparently yelling something at someone else, and returns with a normal voice to the phone.

“I-” Atsumu swallows down a moan and lightly hits Kiyoomi on the head, his cock fattening up gorgeously. “Wh-who else is in-invited?”

Hinata starts listing, pausing between names to maybe remember the rest, and finally stops talking. Then he says something else.

“Yeah, s-sure. I’ll call him to ask.”

Hinata exclaims something, and they exchange farewells, Atsumu’s being choked out again since Kiyoomi is grazing his fully hard length with his teeth now, teasing his frenulum. When he hangs up the phone he practically throws it onto the sofa and brings both hands into Kiyoomi’s hair.

“What the fuck were you _thinking?”_ he asks in a husky and strained voice.

Kiyoomi hums, the vibrations making Atsumu’s cock twitch and coaxing a gasp out of his chest, and Kiyoomi leans a bit back with his mouth open, letting strings of saliva and precome connect them. Atsumu stares at the view, entranced.

“I think it’s clear by what I’m doing.”

Kiyoomi sounds as cocky as he feels. Atsumu groans.

“Would you like me to continue?”

“Omi, are ya tryin’ to let the whole team know? But please do,” Atsumu replies, incredulous, desperate and almost panting.

Kiyoomi chuckles, and leans forward again to take Atsumu’s cock into his mouth and doesn’t stop until his nose is touching Atsumu’s groin. He hears Atsumu gasp for air and feels him grabbing the dark hair with strong fingers. Kiyoomi doesn’t hold back at all; he wants to show reverence, he truly wants to show Atsumu that he can be _good._

Better than anyone else he might have had.

Judging by the sounds of it, Atsumu is enjoying Kiyoomi’s performance, but it’s not enough. He doesn’t just want the approving moans and the gripping. He wants Atsumu’s thick thighs to _shake._

Kiyoomi doesn’t detach himself from Atsumu, but slowly inches forward, forcing Atsumu to back up against the coffee table. He then leaves the sofa, kneels, and shoots a look up towards Atsumu’s face to find his head already thrown back. Kiyoomi slowly leans back, and as soon as his mouth is free, he speaks. “Watch me suck you off.”

Atsumu looks down onto him, cheeks flushed and mouth parted. Kiyoomi smirks. “I’m doing this for you. You better watch.”

Atsumu groans, the blush crawling down onto his neck and grits his teeth as he recognizes the words. “Is this reveng-”

Kiyoomi doesn’t want him to be able to form words at all, let alone finish them properly, so he takes him into his mouth, again, and eases his chin and throat to be able to fully contain Atsumu’s cock without breaking eye contact. Atsumu drops the word and his thoughts altogether and watches him as if he’s enraptured in the motions. His mouth looks like it’s not going to close anytime soon.

Kiyoomi teases him with his teeth on the oversensitive head, and gently squeezes Atsumu’s balls with his hand. He knows he’s moving at an agonizingly slow pace, but Atsumu seems to be enjoying it, harassed moans and groans falling from his mouth while he can’t take his eyes away from Kiyoomi’s, not even for a second.

Kiyoomi waits for him to understand. And he waits for a long time, until Atsumu grits his teeth again and begs. “Omi– please—faster-”

He chuckles, the voice coming out in odd vibrations since his mouth is full and occupied, and Atsumu groans. Kiyoomi doesn’t move any faster, however. He raises a brow at Atsumu, as if daring him, and Atsumu’s eyes darken when they flash with understanding after a few seconds.

Atsumu laughs. It’s a breathful, rivalrous, agitated laugh, and his grip on Kiyoomi’s hair tightens. “Are you sure, Omi?”

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes at that, humming, and hears Atsumu gasp. It should be enough of an answer.

Suddenly Atsumu yanks his head forward, forcing him to deepthroat Atsumu’s length in one quick motion, and Kiyoomi feels his own dick twitching at the roughness. Atsumu pulls his hair again to push his head back, and then yanks him back in, finding a brutal pace.

Kiyoomi gasps for breaths in between the senseless mouth-fucking, and his hand makes its way down to his own pants, stroking his length over the fabric. His eyes are watering and his jaw hurts, but he is _not_ going to stop until Atsumu is absolutely _spent._

He raises his eyes to find out that Atsumu is looking at him with a very familiar crude, vicious smile, and he is too distracted to prepare himself for the cock all the way through his mouth and in his throat. He gags violently, but Atsumu doesn’t stop — he just lets him have two, three seconds to breathe, and then pulls him back in. Kiyoomi whines, tears now a steady stream down his cheeks, but _doesn’t_ want Atsumu to stop. Every sadistic thrust of the blowjob only makes Kiyoomi harder.

The living room is filled with the sounds of Kiyoomi grunting and gagging with his mouth open, fucked thoroughly, and Atsumu’s low growls and moans.

Atsumu reaches an erratic and destructive pace, and Kiyoomi can feel the bitter, salty taste of the obnoxious amount of precome leaking down his throat. Atsumu, for the first time, peels his eyes away from Kiyoomi and throws his head back again. “Kiyoomi, I’m gonna-”

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes with happiness at hearing his own name spilling from Atsumu’s mouth with such passion. He makes a desperate sound and places both of his hands on Atsumu’s lower back, pushing him to fuck his mouth further.

“Aaaaaah— ah— AH- _FUCK-”_ Atsumu groans as he comes, hot and salty into Kiyoomi’s mouth, directly down his throat. Kiyoomi gags but doesn’t pull back, instead, he wraps his lips firmly around Atsumu’s cock and milks him until he _finally_ sees that Atsumu’s legs are shaking, and swallows the bitter liquid.

Kiyoomi leans back, detaching himself from Atsumu, and sits on his heels, obediently looking up. Atsumu lowers his head, panting, and looks at Kiyoomi in awe. “You are so sexy that it has to be illegal.”

That is not what Kiyoomi expects to hear, but it puts a smile on his face nonetheless. Atsumu looks further down at Kiyoomi’s lap, his signature smirk sneaking onto his face.

“I just got out of the shower, too, you know, Omi,” he says softly as if he’s showering Kiyoomi with loving words, and reaches down to hold Kiyoomi’s cheek in his palm. Kiyoomi’s eyes flutter shut.

“I think you owe some cleaning to me,” Atsumu continues, voice saccharine. And all of a sudden, he growls. “Shower. Now.”

Kiyoomi looks up, licking his lips. He is more than happy to oblige.

✵

Kiyoomi leaves the shower first with trembling legs, an abused prostate and an aching neck with new marks on it. He shakily wears his pajamas and clumsily makes some coffee to not outright pass out in the bed. It’s only 8 PM.

He does not have it in him to stand, or sit on a stool. Instead he just slides down, his back on the island, and slowly thumps against the marble floor, resting his head on the hard surface behind him and basking in the afterglow.

When Atsumu finds him, Kiyoomi becomes aware of his presence thanks to the hearty chuckle. “Someone is spent.”

Kiyoomi shoots him a look from heavy-lidded eyes. “Don’t pretend those orgasms didn’t suck the life out of you as well.”

Atsumu laughs again, and walks towards the shrilling coffee pot, turning the stove off. He pours both of them a cup, and sits down carefully across from Kiyoomi, placing both of their mugs carefully in their respective places. “Ya not worried about sittin’ on the cold floor?”

“I, honestly,” says Kiyoomi, then smiles, “do not care one bit right now.”

Atsumu flashes him that soft smile again, the one that melts Kiyoomi on the inside and makes him feel like he’s staring at the sun with naked eyes, but in this world, it doesn’t hurt. He reaches for the cup happily, and takes a sip, watching Atsumu do the same.

“Did you put less coffee in this?” Atsumu asks, surprised.

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply, but he does hide his blush behind his cup.

Atsumu’s eyes light up, but he does not comment on it, much to Kiyoomi’s surprise. Instead, Atsumu puts his coffee down, bends over and crawls towards Kiyoomi on all fours, and presses a soft kiss onto his lips. Kiyoomi hums, his eyes shut, and can smell the coffee on Atsumu. He puts his cup down blindly, and reaches to tangle his hands into the dirty blond hair, opening up his mouth to be able to kiss him deeper, to kiss him like he’s gasping for air and to kiss him like Atsumu is all he needs.

Atsumu bends him, shifting their position to be able to straddle Kiyoomi. He pushes Kiyoomi down, and throws one delicious thick thigh over him, and bends over to kiss him once again.

Kiyoomi cannot think of anything other than the kiss — not the hard floor beneath his head, not the cold seeping into his bones from his back, not the weight of Atsumu pushing him further into the cool marble. He just kisses Atsumu, biting his lips, tasting his tongue, exploring his body with newfound curiosity, and that’s all that matters.

After a few eternities of breathless kissing, Atsumu pulls back with darkened lips and that soft smile. He bends over, presses one more quick kiss onto Kiyoomi’s lips, and removing himself, crawls back to his spot.

Kiyoomi slowly straightens himself up, and once again leans on the wood of the island, looking at Atsumu as if they just did not make out like teenagers. A ghostly smile plays on Atsumu’s lips, and he looks at Kiyoomi like maybe he’s magic.

Kiyoomi feels a dizzying amount of lightness and bubbling in his chest, and he doesn’t find it in himself to look at Atsumu in the eye.

Atsumu breaks the silence. “Why didn’t yer maids let ya into the kitchen?”

Kiyoomi looks at the ceiling with the sudden shift of topic, his forearm hanging idly on his bent knee, and replies carefully. “I think my mother forbid them to.”

Atsumu makes a confused sound. Kiyoomi sighs. “She didn’t think it was proper or appropriate for a boy to be in the kitchen.”

“Holy fuck,” Atsumu says, horrified. “She… does she know…?”

“No,” Kiyoomi replies flatly. Just thinking about this makes him want to squirm. “I… the only family I talk to is my aunt and Motoya.”

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi looks at him. He doesn’t look like he’s offering mercy or anything. He just looks sad. Sincerely, truly sad.

“Our father apparently left our Ma when we were babies,” Atsumu adds, words a bit slow in his mouth. “Samu doesn’t really care for it, but I hate the man for putting Ma through everything she had to deal with alone.”

“Raising the two of you alone takes a powerful woman.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu chuckles. “But she was… also very loving, stern but balanced. Ya know? She let us ruin the kitchen and wouldn’t care a bit as long as we cleaned up afterwards. And, man, I’m pretty sure we couldn’t clean properly when we started doin’ that, so she put up with us until we could do it right.”

Kiyoomi’s heart aches suddenly. “I wish I had a childhood like that.”

Atsumu’s face twists into a sad and angry expression. It reminds Kiyoomi of Alexandre Cabanel’s _The Fallen Angel_ painting. He is much more beautiful, if Kiyoomi dares to admit.

He doesn’t, though.

“I hate that it was taken away from ya like that,” Atsumu says suddenly, biting out the words. “How can you have a proper childhood without being able to ruin things and fix them back up?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply to that, but his chest aches. He speaks after a resigned silence filled with thoughts. “I don’t remember much of my childhood, anyway.”

“Ugh.” Atsumu buries his head into the crook of his elbow. His voice comes out muffled. “I just wish I could go back and make it better for ya, y’know?”

It’s weird. It’s almost hysterically funny, and also incredibly heartbreaking.

The fact is, Kiyoomi _knows._

“I know.”

Atsumu raises his head at his tentative and wet voice, and sees that Kiyoomi’s eyes are filled. “Fuck, Omi, I’m sorry I didn’t meanto-”

“It’s okay, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, sad but still somewhat put together. He wipes away unfallen tears from his eyes, frowning. “There is not much that can be done to fix it now, anyway.”

“I know,” Atsumu says, eyes boring into Kiyoomi. “But I still want to make ya hurt less.”

“You’re already here,” Kiyoomi replies, voice so soft and quiet that it almost goes unheard. “That helps.”

Atsumu smiles at that. It’s sad, and heartbroken maybe, but at least it’s there. He’s there.

“So,” Atsumu says, another shift in the mood. “Any happy memories ya remember from yer childhood?”

“Hmm,” Kiyoomi says, thoughtful. Then his face softens, his frown leaving a relaxing sensation behind when it disappears. “There was this time when Motoya and I skipped school to go see a movie in a pink film theater-”

“You WHAT?” Atsumu yells, and in a second, he’s slapping his knee with his palm, laughing hysterically. “How’d- how’d it go?”

“Well,” Kiyoomi says, a smirk playing on his lips. “Let’s say I found out that I’m not straight at a very young age.”

Atsumu laughs loudly and with ease. “We, me and Samu, united our allowances to discover _yuri_ and _yaoi_ mangas.”

“How did that turn out?” Sakusa asks, curious.

“Ma was weird at first because we came out at 14, but she accepted our gay asses nonetheless,” Atsumu says with a flashy grin, and Sakusa laughs despite himself. “But seriously though. It was already more than enough that I’m bi, but it was a hell of a ride for Samu to accept that he’s gay. Can’t believe Sunarin stayed through all that shit.”

Huh. Sakusa’s mind whirrs to process the new information. He reaches for his cup, and takes a sip of the warm, soft coffee taste.

“And there was all that cringy shit Samu had with the girls before he finally accepted himself, _god-”_ Atsumu covers his face with his hands while laughing. “The idiot seriously tried to make himself believe he was straight.”

“It’s hard to live in Japan as a gay man,” Kiyoomi softly objects, understanding where Osamu must have come from. “It’s much harder to accept it at such a young age. I wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for Motoya.”

“He really was like a brother to ya, huh?” Atsumu asks mindlessly. “Didja not have any close friends at school?”

“Do I look like a social butterfly to you, Atsumu?” Kiyoomi asks with a raised brow. Atsumu rolls his eyes.

“Didn’t mean that, and ya _know_ I didn’t mean that. Like, nobody you could at least do homework with or man I dunno, chat with once in a while?”

“There were Motoya and Wakatoshi-kun,” Kiyoomi says, and thinks for a second. “And nobody else, I think.”

“God, I want to punch something in the name of revenge for your youth,” Atsumu says, half joking, half serious. “I get Komori, he’s a fun lad. But Ushiwaka?”

“What about him?” Kiyoomi asks, defensive and a bit offended. “He’s an understanding and loyal friend.”

“I don’t have anythin’ to say about that,”' Atsumu waves his hands with dismissal. “He’s just. Stoic and _silent_ and shit. It makes me feel nervous when he just stands there and like. Doesn’t speak at all.”

“Do I make you feel nervous when I don’t speak?” Kiyoomi asks, face tilted.

“Ya make me wanna kiss ya until ya _can’t_ speak,” Atsumu retorts without any delay, and grins at him. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes with a repressed smile.

“Also, yer not stoic at all. I just saw ya moanin’ into the shower tiles while bein’ fucked outta yer brains.”

Kiyoomi stares at Atsumu, unable to form a reply. He finally settles in something simple. “At least I’m not a caveman, thank you.”

“Oi!” Atsumu protests. “I’m doin’ the cookin’ and the cleanin’, and I get to be called the fuckin’ caveman?”

“I don’t make the rules,” is Kiyoomi’s simple reply, and he doesn’t put much thought into it but it’s enough to annoy Atsumu.

“Yeah, it’s because _I_ make the rules.”

The sudden dominance in his voice gives Kiyoomi unbidden goosebumps. He blinks rapidly to snap out of his trained gaze on Atsumu’s lips, and reaches his eyes.

“It’s disrespectful to stare, Omi-kun.”

“I was looking respectfully,” Kiyoomi answers, no hint of embarrassment in his voice. “Besides, you wouldn’t care even if I had a meal of you with my eyes.”

“I would actually love that,” Atsumu replies, face suddenly serious. “How cool wouldja be with you watchin’ me?”

“Watching you doing what?” Kiyoomi asks, his heart leaping into his mouth.

“Dunno. Jerkin’ myself off, fuckin’ someone else, suckin’ someone else. Possibilities are endless.”

Kiyoomi’s mouth suddenly goes ridiculously dry and sandy. He can feel, despite everything they’ve done in the past two hours and him coming twice, his cock stirring and reaching an excited state. His blood feels like it’s warmed up a few degrees.

“Oooh,” Atsumu coos, tilting his head with a knowing grin. “Someone’s interested.”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi snaps. “Anyone with proper eyesight would be interested.”

“Oh?” Atsumu asks, one brow inching closer to his hairline. “You tellin’ me I’m pretty?”

_I’m telling you you’re gorgeous. So ethereal that I want to stare at you a little longer just to make some sense of it._

“I didn’t say that,” Kiyoomi retorts. “The body of a professional athlete, and a passable face. You make a presentable view.”

Atsumu still has that glint in his eyes, which makes Kiyoomi’s blush crawl a bit lower, towards his neck. Atsumu speaks through his fixed grin. “Who wouldja wanna see me with?”

Kiyoomi feels his lips part, and he feels, for the first time in a _long_ while, unable to answer a direct question. A sudden imagery of dirty blond hair mixed with bright orange corrupts his mind, involuntary fantasies of Atsumu’s body hugging a much smaller figure from behind, biting the sun-kissed skin and warm brown eyes of the both of them fluttering shut with pleasure -

“...-kun? From earth to Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi snaps out of his thoughts to focus again on Atsumu, who is watching him intensely, putting his waving hand down.

“I don’t know.”

“Ya clearly have some _thoughts_ about it,” Atsumu says, sweet and annoying. “I can tell.”

“Oh, so now you’re claiming to read me like an open book?”

“Nah,” Atsumu says, chuckling. He points to Kiyoomi’s lap, where his erection is painfully visible. “Doesn’t take a lotta wits.”

Kiyoomi grunts.

Atsumu doesn’t let it go, however. “C’mon, Omi. Who were ya thinkin’?”

“I would rather not announce a name, to keep it professional in the team,” Kiyoomi blurts out with a bright, sudden thought. As soon as he sees Atsumu’s eyes light up, he notices his mistake.

“He’s a _teammate?_ Omi-kun, yer mind is in the fucking gutter.”

But despite the judgement, Atsumu laughs loudly, the sound ringing in Kiyoomi’s ears. Kiyoomi fixes his eyes on a spot on the veined marble under them, and tries to regulate his breathing. He does his best to leave out the imagery of two jerseys, the first a black and orange one with number 10, the other with MSBY’s signature claw marks with 13. He breathes with measure, desperately attempting to detach from his thoughts.

It is not working.

“C’mon Omi, _tell me,”_ Atsumu insists, absolutely determined about getting what he wants. “Can’t speak of yer fantasies after all the shit we’ve done?”

Kiyoomi shoots him a warning glance. “Is there an existing universe where I can trust you with such knowledge and expect you to keep it in your pants?”

Atsumu raises his brows, appalled. “Excuse you, Omi. I keep a lot of things in my pants.”

Kiyoomi does his best to not make an innuendo about that.

“Is it Bokuto-san?” Atsumu asks suddenly, his eyes staring holes into Kiyoomi’s skull.

Kiyoomi looks at him, defensive. “I won’t tell you.”

“Is it Barnes? Tomas?” Atsumu is looking at him with such intensity that Kiyoomi is almost sure he’s going to give it away if he just utters the name. He fixes his glare to something stable with all his effort.

“Oh no,” Atsumu says, eyes blown wide. “Tell me ya didn’t fantasize me fucking Shoyo-kun.”

Kiyoomi’s gaze does not waver, but it is his skin that betrays him. His blush deepens and Kiyoomi can feel his cheeks burning. Atsumu’s mouth hangs open.

“You…”

“Don’t.” Kiyoomi snaps. He takes his head into his palms, and only raises it to Atsumu’s husky voice.

“Ya… ya want to see me with Shoyo.”

Kiyoomi grunts. “Isn’t he with Kageyama-san?”

“He… he proposed to him. Today. That’s why he called me.”

Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu in shock, and feels the blood drain from his face. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No no no,” Atsumu shakes his head, then smirks nastily. “I can actually show you me with Shoyo-kun.”

“What?”

“We… might have a sex tape.”

“You _what?”_

“Well, when they took a break with Tobio-kun, I helped Shoyo to… discover himself a little.”

Kiyoomi cannot wrap his mind around this knowledge. But they seem so friendly, so not awkward —

“It was just sex,” Atsumu explains. “His heart belonged to Tobio, and I always knew that. I was… some distraction for both of us, probably. Very good sex though.”

Kiyoomi ignores the pang of sudden unease in his stomach and the tingling of his fingertips, and proceeds to shut his mouth from its shocked, open state. He hums thoughtfully, desperately trying to make it seem like he’s calm.

It seems to work, because Atsumu tilts his head and speaks. “Thought ya would freak out.”

“No,” Kiyoomi replies, and distracts himself. “What… sex tape?”

“Oh, that,” Atsumu says, chuckling. “Shoyo and I were most compatible in our… exhibitionism. We tried things.”

“Oh,” is all Kiyoomi can say. He is uncomfortable, surely, although he doesn’t know why — probably the idea of two teammates fucking each other, but then he is here with Atsumu as well, so what is the actual problem here? His mind whirrs and he can hear the clanking thoughts colliding with each other, and then he notices he’s not at all disturbed by the fact that he’s having sex with Atsumu. It has…. It has something to do with the fact that Atsumu was not… with him, when he fucked Hinata. Kiyoomi was not in the picture. He feels… excluded. He feels left alone. Forsaken… abandoned.

Which is an incredibly familiar feeling, one he’s known all his childhood and life. He just didn’t expect Atsumu of all people to make him feel this way.

“I don’t think I want to see the tape,” Kiyoomi says, his voice flat and uninterested.

Atsumu tilts his head to the side with confusion on his face. “Why?”

“I just don’t.”

Atsumu looks at him, and falls quiet.

They do not speak for a while, the tension silent but omnipresent. Kiyoomi puts down his cup, trying to shoot down the feelings arising within him. When he attempts to rise, Atsumu snatches at his wrist. His grip is gentle but firm. “Don’t walk away.”

Kiyoomi looks at him, caught completely off guard, and feels the heaviness in his chest sink further into him. “Let go of my wrist, please.”

“Omi, tell me how you’re feeling,” Atsumu says, letting him go. “Something’s wrong.”

Kiyoomi sits back down, leans back, and looks at Atsumu with a long, thoughtful, silent gaze.

“I feel alone.” _Left alone._

“Why?” Atsumu sounds gentle. Not defensive at all. He seems like he’s truly trying to understand.

Which makes everything harder, because Kiyoomi is terrified of the possibility of Atsumu understanding how exactly fucked up and fragile Kiyoomi actually is, how he suddenly grew insecure and worthless, and how this information about one past relationship will haunt him nonstop.

He does not think of it exactly like that — he just feels sheer terror. His thoughts go unnoticed.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Atsumu says, reluctant. “Ya gonna sleep?”

“Yes,” and with a glance at the clock on the wall, Kiyoomi adds. “It’s almost 2 AM.”

“Fuck, I have practice tomorrow,” Atsumu curses, standing up and extending one hand for Kiyoomi to lift him.

Kiyoomi doesn’t take it. He supports himself with the island behind him, and stands up, bending over to pick up the cups. Atsumu beats him to it. “Go to bed. I’ll be there shortly.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply, but walks towards his bedroom. He tries not to think about him giving Atsumu a blowjob while Atsumu was on the phone with his former friend with benefits. He tries not to think about how worthless he must be for Atsumu.

It’s going to be a restless night of sleep.

✵

But somehow, it’s better than dealing with it alone — to be with Atsumu. To be able to touch him, to be able to fling a leg over his thigh, to be able to call it an accident when Kiyoomi comes too close. He doesn’t have to, though, because Atsumu never calls him out on it.

He just lets him.

Kiyoomi is painfully grateful.

✵

Atsumu is long gone when Kiyoomi wakes up. The sunlight kisses his feet softly, already high in the sky and only reaching the end of the bed and the mahogany floor. Kiyoomi stretches, and rolls out, noticing the smell of coffee in the hallway.

He enters the kitchen to find a note on the counter.

_“Made the coffee — it will probably get cold till you wake up, but try it with some warm milk! Bought you lactose-free. In the fridge.”_

The signature is childish, stupid and impossible to read. Kiyoomi loves it.

✵

After walking back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, Kiyoomi finally caves in, putting down his homemade latte on the counter and he proceeds to take the note into his hands.

He pins it onto the fridge with the only magnet he has, courtesy of Wakatoshi-kun, the picture of three of them from their wedding with Tendou-san.

Kiyoomi smiles.

✵

When Atsumu knocks on the door that afternoon, Kiyoomi has to wait for a couple of seconds in front of the door to make it less obvious that he sprung out of the sofa and ran to the genkan. But when he opens the door, he cannot help the natural, surprised expression on his face. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly is not… this.

Atsumu raises a brow. “Ya not gonna let me in?”

Kiyoomi wordlessly slides behind the door and opens it wider, letting Atsumu hop in, his hands full. Atsumu puts the duffel bag and the plant _\- Esther -_ down, and proceeds to take off his shoes. He then carries the plant into the kitchen, and Kiyoomi notices that the duffel bag is not something surprising enough to stare as long and hard as he’s doing right now. He clears his throat and turns around to see what Atsumu is doing in the kitchen.

He is not expecting to be nose to nose with Atsumu at that moment, either. Atsumu holds him by the sides of his neck, gentle and soft, and presses a kiss on top of his nose. Kiyoomi closes his eyes, swaying a little on his feet, and then buries his face into the crook of Atsumu’s neck. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Atsumu replies. “Did you miss me awfully or did you miss me terribly?”

“I was quite alright, I’m afraid,” Kiyoomi says into his neck, and hears Atsumu’s chest vibrating with laughter.

It feels natural.

Natural; when Atsumu wraps his arms around Kiyoomi, when he pulls him into a close hug that feels like home, when he pulls back a little but holds Kiyoomi’s cheek in his palm like he’s holding a wild bird with a broken wing.

Natural, when Atsumu smiles at him like Kiyoomi is… worth being with.

“Let me introduce you to Esther,” Atsumu says, snapping him out of his thoughts, and motions to the kitchen.

✵

The drive, next morning, to the doctor’s appointment is eerily silent, Kiyoomi notices, because Atsumu isn’t humming or singing. Kiyoomi looks at him from the passenger seat, and notices his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

Huh.

He must be really worried about whether Kiyoomi healed. Weird.

✵

 _Until he heals,_ Atsumu’s mind reminds him.

✵

“Okay, so,” Atsumu says, again, for the thousandth time. “Ya don’t wanna come to Shoyo’s celebration. Do ya want me to stay witcha?”

“Atsumu, stop worrying,” Kiyoomi says from Atsumu’s lap, looking at Atsumu’s golden eyes, watching his fingers playing with Kiyoomi’s hair. Atsumu has been oddly silent this whole evening, and it turns out to be about the fact that Hinata invited Kiyoomi to his celebration dinner as well. “I need some time alone. It’s fine, it’s a Friday night, everybody’s celebratory. You should go.”

Atsumu sighs, finally, and his shoulders relax. He does not let go of the tuft in his hand, but he looks at Kiyoomi’s dark eyes. The foxy eyes soften a little. “If you think you’ll be fine.”

“You will come back here afterwards, remember?” Kiyoomi reminds him.

“Yep. Should not waste my paycheck on long taxi rides… wow, I’m so responsible and shit.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, mumbling something about going to college first if he felt so _responsible,_ but Atsumu takes the moment to tickle Kiyoomi. Which is terrifyingly easy.

Harassed by the fingers on his waist, Kiyoomi laughs and pushes Atsumu, and this initiates a wrestling tournament - apparently - which, inevitably, Kiyoomi wins. He looks down at a pinned Atsumu, and smirks.

Atsumu huffs. “Fine. Get off me, I’m gonna be late.”

Kiyoomi lets him go only after a quick kiss, and sits on the living room floor, watching Atsumu pick up his wallet, phone, checking for the keys -

“They are in the genkan,” Kiyoomi directs him. “Hung on the wall.”

“Okay. I’ll be careful to not wake ya up.”

Kiyoomi waves as Atsumu blows him a kiss, disappearing into the genkan, and after a few shuffling sounds the door opens and shuts.

Kiyoomi lifts his phone from the ground, and looks at the notifications. He rolls his eyes and moves towards the dining table.

✵

“I was _so fucking worried_ Kiyoomi!” Motoya yells through the screen. “Why didn’t you reply for three days straight?!”

“I was fine,” Kiyoomi replies calmly. “I was busy.”

“You’re home all day long with an injured hand. How the hell were you busy?”

“Atsumu was here,” Kiyoomi states nonchalantly.

“Miya? Was there?” Motoya’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds. Kiyoomi feels his chest clench at the expression. “With you? For _three days?”_

“Yes, Motoya, I thought you could understand spoken Japanese. Do I need to repeat myself?”

Motoya completely ignores him. “How the _fuck_ did that happen?”

Kiyoomi raises a brow despite the anxiety stirring in his stomach. “Why are you so surprised?”

“You have a _friend,”_ Motoya informs him.

Kiyoomi swallows down a _‘no I don’t_ ’ and instead, replies. “Do I look like a sociopath?”

“No, Kiyoomi.” Motoya waves his hand. “You were just a lone wolf since we were children, and I’m just glad you have a friend.”

“Thanks,” Kiyoomi mumbles, unable to formulate a more intelligent response.

“So, how _close_ is this friendship?” Motoya asks, an eyebrow raised suggestively.

“If you’re asking whether we’ve been having sex,” Kiyoomi replies, unimpressed, “the answer is yes.”

“Oooooh,” Motoya coos, wiggling his eyebrows. “Does he cook for you and wake you up with kisses too?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Yes, but what does that have to do with sex?”

“WHAT?!” Motoya practically _yells_ from across the country, and Kiyoomi scrunches his nose.

There is no time for Kiyoomi to reply, and no need. “YOU COULD AT LEAST DO ME THE COURTESY OF INVITING ME TO THE FUCKING WEDDING-”

“Motoya, slow the _fuck_ down,” Kiyoomi snaps unexpectedly, surprising himself as well.

“Kiyoomi, you have a goddamn BOYFRIEND,” Motoya yells, unable to contain himself.

“No I don’t!” Kiyoomi retorts.

“How the fuck do you mean you don’t?”

“What the _hell_ do _you_ mean?”

Now they are practically yelling at each other. Kiyoomi is flushed, his anxiety reaching a dizzying height, and Motoya just looks offended and shocked.

“Let me put it in different words, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says, clearly trying to be patient with Kiyoomi’s obvious lack of intelligence. “The sex is good, yeah?”

Kiyoomi nods wordlessly.

“Do you let him touch you more than absolutely necessary?”

He thinks for several seconds of their cuddling, sleeping together, Atsumu petting his hair, looking at it with awe. His pause is apparently enough for Motoya, because he raises his brows and just looks at Kiyoomi.

“It’s _not_ like that."

“Okay,” Motoya says, clearly not listening to him at all. “Do _you_ touch him more than necessary? Do you _think_ of him more than necessary?”

Sudden images of him trailing Atsumu’s shoulders, neck and shoulder blades with his fingers in the morning when Atsumu is still asleep flood him. Images of Kiyoomi, not an hour ago, kissing Atsumu before letting him go get prepared. Images of Kiyoomi smiling at a hand-written note to pin it onto the fridge, Kiyoomi sitting on the cold kitchen marble talking to Atsumu about his childhood, Kiyoomi being _vulnerable_ to someone and… not running away from it for the first time.

The memory of Kiyoomi’s stomach turning at the _jealousy_ he felt for Hinata.

Kiyoomi’s brain screeches to a halt.

His expression must speak volumes, because Motoya patiently waits for him to reach his own conclusions without saying a word. Kiyoomi looks at the screen, incredulous, and cannot form any coherent speech.

“Kiyoomi,” Motoya begins after an eternity, “it’s oka-”

“I need to go,” Kiyoomi blurts out violently, shaking, feeling like he’s going to collapse any second. “I… I’ll text you later.”

He snaps the laptop shut, grabbing at the item with white knuckles, and remembers Atsumu’s hands on the steering wheel.

No. No no no no _no._

_No._

✵

Kiyoomi cannot stop pacing up and down the house. When he finally calms down enough to have a cup of water, he turns the kitchen light on to find the mug Atsumu brought.

_“My favourite cup — if you break it, I’ll break ya.”_

He tears his eyes from it to meet the lush green leaves of the plant in front of the window, mercilessly existing.

The pinned note on the fridge stares at him under three smiling faces of happy times.

Kiyoomi feels his bottom lip trembling. He leaves the kitchen with haste.

✵

Kiyoomi’s heart in his throat, and he’s pacing up and down in the living room, unable to stop his feet or his thoughts.

To think that this is a relationship is just too much. It is overwhelming, suffocating. It feels like a trap. Why are they doing something that will end no matter what they do? Why didn’t Atsumu tell him?

But oh, he _told_ him.

He told Kiyoomi he loved him, the first night they had sex. Kiyoomi tried not to think about it ever since, and he definitely didn’t bring up the subject, but the thought now plagues his mind. It might not be a drunken declaration but a sincere one.

God, he tried so hard to hide behind the sex and call it a fling.

 _Who_ was he _fooling?_

The sex _is_ amazing, but as Kiyoomi notices with horror, that is _not_ why he wants Atsumu to stay. He wants Atsumu to stay to watch horror movies with him, to comfort Kiyoomi afterwards. He wants to sit on the kitchen floor an endless amount of times and talk about what hurt Atsumu and shaped him into who he is now. He wants to _know_ Atsumu in ways that even Miya Osamu doesn't. He wants to wake up to his morning kisses, to open his eyes to find Atsumu sleepily watching him like the view is better than any kind of sleep he can have.

He wants Atsumu to love him.

Fuck.

No, no no no. This cannot happen. It is not a result of his thoughts but an internal gag reflex, an instinctual rejection of the idea. His chest tightens impossibly and it is so hard to breathe, the anxiety burning his stomach and throat.

This cannot happen. He cannot let himself into a relationship. The thought is terrifying, and Kiyoomi feels like he’s only beginning to see how much he’s becoming dependent on Atsumu. He cannot have that. He has spent his whole life fighting to become independent and free to do as he wishes, and now he cannot give it away for something that won’t last.

But what if he fought this? What if he took the risk? He considers asking Atsumu openly to start a relationship properly. What would happen then?

He... Kiyoomi doesn’t know if Atsumu loves him. Is this his general attitude towards people he likes? Is he like this just because he likes Kiyoomi or worse, feels debt for hurting his hand? Even worse, is it pity? Is this just a pay-off? The thought nauseates him. He presses one hand onto his stomach, and grips the edge of the table for support.

Even if he did love Kiyoomi, and god knows _why_ he would do that, there are so many problems.

With a sudden halt in his movements, he remembers the talk they had about Hinata. What if... What if Atsumu has feelings for Hinata? What if Atsumu starts having feelings for someone while they’re dating? There is no guarantee about Atsumu loving him, and absolutely none about Atsumu loving him forever.

Forever. That’s a heavy word. And Kiyoomi is thinking of this merely.... within weeks of being around Atsumu. 

He is.... Kiyoomi has feelings. Strong ones. He is... _attached._ He needs to see Atsumu every day, smiling at him like Kiyoomi’s made of stardust. It hurts to think of otherwise.

But it will hurt so much more if they start this, get even more caught up in these feelings and end it badly.

He simply cannot take the chance of building something up to watch it crash down onto him.

Kiyoomi hates himself for wanting to stay. He hates himself for wanting to leave.

But his decision is clear.

He ignores all the worried texts from Motoya.

✵

When Atsumu returns, Kiyoomi can tell he’s tipsy from the clanking of the keys and the shuffled footsteps. He doesn’t open his eyes and waits until Atsumu gets into the bed, and Kiyoomi nearly holds his breath when hears Atsumu murmuring.

“I can’t believe this.”

There is a silence.

“God, I’m so lucky.”

Kiyoomi swallows the sob rising in his throat.

He is almost sure his heartbeat will alarm Atsumu because the pounding is all he can hear right now. But, despite his worries, Atsumu’s breaths even out in a while, and Kiyoomi opens his eyes slightly to notice that Atsumu is facing him.

He probably fell asleep watching Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi cannot hold back the tears streaming down his face. He quietly peels the covers and tiptoes out of the room.

✵

When Atsumu wakes up, the bed is empty. He yawns, and walks towards the kitchen.

Sakusa is sitting there, silently fiddling with his cup of coffee. He doesn’t raise his head when Atsumu greets him, but Atsumu is too sleepy to notice that.

He is too _something_ to notice a lot of things.

Sakusa mumbles a ‘good morning’ back, and Atsumu takes some coffee. “Didja try the milk?”

“Yes.”

“Was it good?”

“I think I’ll stick with black.”

“Huh.”

Nothing is wrong in Sakusa’s words, but his attitude… something is off. Atsumu frowns, looking at Esther bathing in the morning sun. He turns around. “Is everyth-”

“Why did you stay with me?” Sakusa asks, voice flat. Dead.

A jolt of shock travels across Atsumu’s spine. “What?”

 _“Why_ did you stay with me?” Sakusa repeats, sounding even more dull.

Atsumu hardly keeps himself from stammering, a feeling of dooming catastrophe stirring in his gut. “Because you asked me to?”

“Dont play _dumb,_ Miya,” Sakusa snarls, the way he does in the very purposeful distance he uses when Atsumu makes a joke in the locker room. “You wouldn’t stay if you didn’t _want_ to.”

Atsumu feels his chest tighten. He almost slams the cup down on the counter. “Yes. What is your question?”

Sakusa lifts his eyes slowly, looking at him for the first time this morning.

And boy, how the gaze has changed. It’s… it’s the Sakusa that Atsumu knows from training. And nobody more.

“You first tell me you love me,” Sakusa begins, and stops for a shaky inhale. “Then you refuse to have sex with me. Then you have hatesex with me, and take care of me afterwards. You cook for me. You kiss me good morning.”

“I still don’t see a question,” Atsumu says quietly.

“What the _fuck_ are we doing?” Sakusa asks, frustrated, putting his cup down with such force that Atsumu for one second worries that it will break. The porcelain proves to be sturdier than it was expected to be, though.

Atsumu is not sure if that’s the case for himself.

He doesn’t know how to reply, either. He doesn’t know what they are doing. He doesn’t know if Sakusa is freaking out beyond repair, or is going to freak out even more.

“I don’t know.”

It’s a muted statement. It almost sounds like surrender.

“Is this a romantic relationship, Atsumu?” Sakusa asks, voice controlled.

“Do ya really need a reply, Kiyoomi?” Atsumu retorts, exasperatedly combing his hair with his hand.

“I _don’t_ want a fucking RELATIONSHIP!” Kiyoomi yells, slamming his palm onto the counter. “I don’t want to be trapped in a relationship doomed to fucking fail!”

“Ya _what?”_ Atsumu asks, his voice rising involuntarily. “Doomed to _WHAT?”_

“Did I _stutter?”_

“Kiyoomi, ya fuckin-” Atsumu takes a deep inhale, and tries to ground himself by shifting on his feet, palms on the counter. He looks at Kiyoomi, who doesn’t meet his eyes.

He speaks softly, trying not to frighten Kiyoomi more. But it has to be said.

“I didn’t lie when I said I love you.”

There is no response. Atsumu looks at the man sitting across him, shaking, holding his head with his graceful fingers, staring at the countertop.

“Kiyoomi, I love you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Atsumu’s mouth hangs open. Before he can recover, Kiyoomi continues.

“You can’t.”

Atsumu stares at him.

“This was just a fling. I don’t even _like_ you.”

Atsumu freezes, fingers grabbing the marble as if he’s going to snap any second. He inhales sharply when his lungs start to burn.

He looks at Kiyoomi once more, still not meeting Atsumu’s eyes. Atsumu grants himself one more long gaze, detailing the man’s heartbreakingly beautiful features in his mind.

Then he grabs his jacket, puts his shoes on without his socks, and slams the door behind him.

✵

Kiyoomi stares at the documentary about trees, unaware of the tears streaming down his face.

It feels natural.

It feels as natural as dying.

He wonders if the tallest trees to live experience the process of dying slowly from the inside. He figures they must, because trees grow from the inside out, their innermost parts becoming dead tubes with time, their only duty to support the tree, and nothing else. The dead tubes, dead _xylems,_ are called the “heartwood”, Kiyoomi learns. How very fitting. A dead heart to support the tree for enduring everything.

He wonders if the trees remember what it felt like when they were first planted, before they ever saw a harsh, merciless winter; safe in the warm embrace of the soil.

It is valuable, the happiness you experience through your ignorance of what life can bring you.

And just like innocence, you cannot know how it defines you before you actually lose it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments, honestly, give my depressed ass the will to live, feel and write more. I wrote this entire thing in four days after not touching one word for a week. it works weirdly, but i’m OK with it… I guess. 
> 
> I cannot tell you the many times I received the e-mail notification of someone commenting on my fic and SQUEALED in the middle of lessons, cooking, watching a movie with my sister. she knows all about y’all, too. i screenshot every single comment and note on a bookmark and send it to her with incoherent keysmashes lkdfajhafdkjd (she said she wants to read it, and I am trying to prepare myself to explain her how deep in kink and gay sex I am)
> 
> If you have questions or comments, you can ask/send them here without having to log in:  
> [my curiouscat](https://curiouscat.qa/berfinwrites)
> 
> alright folks. let’s see how these two gorgeous gay disasters handle this.


	5. breaking the routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiyoomi cannot shake the feeling that they’re opponents at heart but allies in the court. It doesn’t feel right to focus on the ball when he knows what Atsumu’s fingers are capable of doing, when he knows how Atsumu looks without a t-shirt and with a black apron on, when he… when Kiyoomi misses him.
> 
> But they are professionals. And this is their job.

Kiyoomi still doesn’t know what got into him when he watches Atsumu storm out.

He gives up on sleeping the other night when he leaves the bed after Atsumu returns and falls asleep, probably exhausted from celebrating the news of Hinata and Kageyama, the happy party animal couple.

Maybe the reason why Kiyoomi can’t sleep is that the sofa is too uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the nightmares. Maybe it’s because this is his first time sleeping without Atsumu when he so easily could have if he walked to his bedroom and snuggled into the warmth of him.

It is truly a fine morning, if the obvious is ignored; the sunrise is gorgeous, Esther’s leaves seem to be unphased by the lack of attention Atsumu has reportedly been giving her, his coffee is so dark and loaded with so much caffeine that it is enough to burn Kiyoomi’s throat with its bitterness.

And then Atsumu appears, so loveable in his sleepy and heavy walk.

When he finally enters the kitchen, Kiyoomi’s whole body wants to shrink in fear of what is about to happen, what he is about to cause. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t.

But he has to.

And Kiyoomi’s life has been built upon the fact that doing what he likes is motivation, but doing what he must is discipline.

So this, honestly, is his mind - a creature of habit - trying to protect him.

He feels Atsumu’s tension, and senses the upcoming question. _“Is everything alright?”_

No. Nothing is alright.

That is where things start to get out of his control. Some part of him sincerely, desperately hopes that the talk will not happen, that maybe they can pretend to be alright and continue this - whatever it is, whatever _they are._

But another part of him cannot wait. The foxes circling each other in his mind are impatient, and wild. They want blood. They want release.

He feels so far away from the blond man during the entire conversation. He feels as if he’s not there, as if this is not happening. His mouth is running on its own out of pure panic and rejection; he, if he thought Atsumu would believe it, is ready for any lie, any statement, anything to end this and move on with his life. The panic growing inside him is too intense, too scary. The anxiety is too fiery.

He cannot go on like this - when Atsumu looks at him like this — heartbroken, confused, angry with shiny eyes ready to spill their sorrow onto his pale cheeks.

He cannot give Atsumu a way of trying to fix things.

He cannot meet his eyes when he tells Atsumu… he doesn’t _like_ him.

Because Kiyoomi is starting to fall in love with him. And they can’t do this.

✵

When Atsumu slams the door behind him, Kiyoomi looks at the handle with numb eyes.

This is probably for the best.

And it is probably not as terrible as Kiyoomi feels it to be right now.

✵

It is even more terrible than how Kiyoomi feels, and it only gets worse with the following days.

It is the 9th of November when Atsumu slams the dark brown door after him. Kiyoomi remembers it hauntingly clearly because he was expecting his doctor’s appointment on the 8th impatiently. After that.... he doesn’t really look at the calendar until his phone gives him notifications, reminding him of physiotherapy appointment dates.

He spends the first couple of days with an all-encompassing, gluttonous sense of numbness. He doesn’t really leave the bed, and accuses his healing process for it, ignoring the fact that it’s almost over.

 _Finally, some time peacefully alone,_ he lies to himself. So professionally too. He almost believes it.

✵

Motoya will not leave him alone.

After multiple phone calls that wake Kiyoomi up from his sleep over multiple different days, Kiyoomi finally wakes up to the door being… punched. He almost runs to the door with newly found energy, and flings it open with a sense of anger, sorrow and hope in his chest.

There is no dirty blond hair, however. Motoya looks at him, one brow raised, both hands occupied with his baggage and what seems like… a bag of liquor.

“You seem even worse than you sound, Kiyoomi,” is all he says before gently shoving Kiyoomi aside and stepping into the genkan.

“What are you doing here?”

“We have a week free from practice, since the league matches are over. Suna was going to visit his boyfriend, so I joined him on the ride.”

The unspoken surname hangs in the air. Kiyoomi looks at the floor, swallows down something heavy in his throat, and shuts the door after Motoya is entirely in.

“This place smells like… dust, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply to that. He doesn’t tell him that he, despite almost being in winter, sleeps with all windows open to make the warmth of the quilt make him feel some sense of safety and belonging.

“Oh, you have a plant now? I thought you didn’t like living things in your house,” Motoya talks from the kitchen. “Huh. The soil seems a bit dry, though.”

“Her name is Esther,” Kiyoomi says after clearing his throat, standing defensively at the entrance of the kitchen. He doesn’t know why Motoya came, unannounced. He doesn’t want him to stay. He just wants to be alone.

Motoya shoots him a look. “You dumbass, stop looking at me like that. You’re miserable. That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m not miserable!” Kiyoomi’s voice rises involuntarily, and he curls his fingers and stretches them behind his folded arms on his chest. “I’m just-”

“Absolutely miserable because you probably destroyed your chance to actually have a healthy, happy relationship.”

Motoya’s gaze penetrates Kiyoomi’s skull. His accusations are not over, though.

“You also are _so_ miserable that you cannot tell me what happened despite me asking numerous times over the past week. I know you well enough that if you’re not talking about it, it either means nothing or everything to you. And I think right now, it’s clear which one we’re dealing with.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know how to reply to that.

Motoya walks towards him, at the edge of his personal space, knowing Kiyoomi for long enough to be naturally aware of his boundaries.

“Kiyoomi,” he says softly. “It’s okay. It’s _okay_ to be heartbroken. It’s okay to miss him.”

Kiyoomi feels something snapping in his chest at the sudden, unbidden understanding and support. He feels his eyes filling without any prompting or control, and bites his bottom lip, trying to pull the tears back, to swallow them, to make them die wherever they arise.

“Do you want a hug?” Motoya asks, gently taking one step closer.

Kiyoomi looks at him. Looks at the softness in his cousin’s brown eyes, remembering everything they went through together. These soft brown eyes were all he had every time he ran away from his home and sought refuge in his aunt’s place.

“Yes.”

Motoya takes another step, and pulls Kiyoomi into a bone-crushing hug that is impressive, regarding their height and weight difference. Kiyoomi just buries his face into Motoya’s shoulder, and hugs him back.

He doesn’t know when he starts sobbing.

But he does, throughout the whole evening, speaking to Motoya between his hiccups and breaks for breaths, telling him what Kiyoomi did to his one chance of being truly happy.

✵

When Motoya finally leaves the living room to take a shower and let Kiyoomi calm down a little, Kiyoomi already has a headache and his chest hurts. He gazes at the documentary on the screen, waiting for Motoya to return, and his ears catch the words “heartwood” and “dead tubes”.

He gazes at the screen, one hand over the hole in his chest, and just wonders where things went wrong.

✵

Motoya returns at some point, but Kiyoomi doesn’t realize his mistake until he comes too close - close enough for Kiyoomi to smell his guest shower gel, the orange and bergamot, on his skin. Motoya is innocently putting a glass of water in front of him before sitting down on the sofa, but Kiyoomi’s breath catches and he holds it, trying not to inhale it more on the wrong skin, the wrong person.

He excuses himself and walks towards the guest bathroom, where the smell wafts through the moist air, and snatches the bottle to bring it to his own ensuite. He replaces it in the guest bathroom with a lemon and mint one.

✵

“So, who do you think is wrong?” Motoya asks, finally at a safe distance from him where Kiyoomi cannot smell the haunting fragrance.

“I don’t think there’s anyone to blame,” Kiyoomi says weakly, throat sore from all the crying.

“I think you’re way smarter than that,” Motoya says as he sips his whiskey.

“There is no blame in this,” Kiyoomi repeats himself.

“There is no blame in pushing someone away by lying to them?”

“I did it to protect both of us.” Kiyoomi’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “It would only be worse if we actually started a relationship and suffered through its end. This is better. This is safe.”

“And what did safety bring to anyone?” Motoya mumbles into his glass.

“The guarantee of not being hurt, obviously.”

“And you’re not hurting right now?”

“I… am,” Kiyoomi says, reluctant. “But I will mourn, and this too shall pass. I just need some time to adjust.”

“If you say so.”

It is clear that Motoya doesn’t believe him, and Kiyoomi’s not even sure he believes in his own words either, but he proceeds to look straight ahead without crying.

✵

“What is this?” Kiyoomi asks when Motoya knocks on his door with a pot and a bag of plant bulbs in his hand.

“Lily bulbs,” Motoya replies, proceeding to take off his shoes, giving them to Kiyoomi. “Your plant seems alone.”

“Oh,” is all Kiyoomi can say. “I don’t know how to care for plants, though.”

“We’ll figure it out. I think your plant is actually the same one from _Léon: the Professional,_ too. It shouldn’t be hard to identify it.”

✵

Kiyoomi spends that whole evening googling the plant, finding out that Motoya is right. It seems to have gained popularity through a movie, which Kiyoomi has not watched but decides to watch that night, after Motoya leaves for Tokyo. He reads multiple articles on how to look after Esther, finding out that its place in front of the window is actually not appropriate since she needs indirect light. So he shuffles the places, planting the lilies in front of the window, and carrying Esther to the island in the middle.

He takes a cup of tea, drinking it in silence while looking at Esther. His gaze catches the note on the fridge, and he quickly returns it to the plant.

“Do you think he misses either of us?” he asks, bringing the cup to his lips.

Esther does not reply, and Kiyoomi figures he deserves silent treatment.

✵

Kiyoomi bawls his eyes out watching _Léon: the Professional._

He buries himself deeper into the fleece blanket, which feels too big to hold only him inside. His eyes fill when Léon tells the young girl that the plant has no roots, just like him, and Kiyoomi suddenly inhales sharply with the understanding of why Atsumu picked this plant.

The movie is beautiful, but he cannot keep his sobs silent when he watches the plant being planted in a park, now having roots, now belonging somewhere, and Mathilda just looks at it and replies to an unasked question, “I think we will be okay here, Léon.”

He fights the urge to go to the kitchen and hug the pot like a fucking idiot.

✵

Kiyoomi starts to impulsively adopt plants, and it begins with him noticing a flower shop on his way to the grocery shop. He slows his steps, and notices several pots with plants in them for sale.

He returns home with four more plants and no groceries, one an English ivy that the saleswoman guaranteed to climb onto the walls, no matter how smooth. He places the pots in front of the window, since he asked for the ones who needed the most sunlight, and thinks of a name for the ivy in front of the wall.

He cannot find one. It’s alright, though, because at the rate of his plant population’s growth, he cannot possibly remember all of their names. One named plant is enough.

That night, he notices that it drives him crazy to cook or brew coffee without music, for some reason, so Kiyoomi orders a radio online.

He places it next to the ivy when it arrives, and programs it to start early in the morning so that he doesn’t wake up to complete silence.

✵

After two more weeks of physiotherapy and misery, Kiyoomi, as his doctor states, is ready to return to practice.

But is he, _really,_ he thinks as he parks his car in his usual spot. He stares at the steering wheel, recognizing the fact that he is much more anxious than he was on his first day of school — but it is not that other people will exclude him this time, or not that he has to return home with many questions awaiting him. It is one person whom Kiyoomi excluded. It is that he will return to an empty house.

Hopelessly trying to regulate his breathing and calm himself down, he walks towards the facility.

When he enters the locker room, Hinata notices him first.

“SAKUSA-SAN!” He yells, almost jumping to hug him, but thankfully Bokuto grabs him by his jersey and yanks the ball of sunshine backward.

“Welcome, Omi-kun,” Bokuto says, greeting him with enthusiasm and a definite physical distance. “Did you miss us?”

Kiyoomi feels the relief of being accepted back into routine, and his face relaxes. “I missed volleyball more, Bokuto-san, but believe what you have to.”

Bokuto laughs loudly as Tomas and Meian greet Kiyoomi when they enter the locker room, and then Inunaki rolls in.

“Sakusa-san!” He exclaims, clapping his hands in excitement. “Our spikes haven’t been the same since you’ve been gone. I’m looking forward to receiving those nasty spins!!!”

Kiyoomi nods, his chest relaxing a little more at the enthusiasm and energy of their libero, and listens to the banter of Hinata and Bokuto with Inunaki about whether he found their spikes inadequate. They bicker on as Kiyoomi opens his locker, places his bag in, and proceeds to change.

He hears the hauntingly familiar “mornin’ guys” as he pulls the jersey over his head, and freezes, looking at the depths of his locker. He feels like a deer in headlights, the ache in his chest that he so successfully ignored in the past days returning with whole force at the sleepy voice, and Kiyoomi suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

“Ah, Omi-kun!” he hears Atsumu say, and he _has to_ turn his face to greet him.

Atsumu’s blond hair is a mess, he has dark circles under his eyes, his face is plastered with a frustrating grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, and it makes Kiyoomi want to scream, cry, or both.

“Welcome! Ya haven’t changed since we last saw ya!” Atsumu says. Plastic, fake, annoyingly normal.

Normal for everyone else in the room, but Kiyoomi can sense his furious, almost hateful vibrations from where he stands.

Kiyoomi nods in acknowledgement and leaves the locker room, trying not to make it obvious that he would dash out if it were possible.

✵

Practice is... full of contrasts.

Kiyoomi cannot shake the feeling that they’re opponents at heart but allies in the court. It doesn’t feel right to focus on the ball when he knows what Atsumu’s fingers are capable of doing, when he knows how Atsumu looks without a t-shirt and with a black apron on, when he… when Kiyoomi misses him.

But they are professionals. And this is their job.

So they sync, of course, and their performances are not suffering, especially considering Kiyoomi is just back from a 6-week break; he hits the ball with utmost power, and Inunaki flashes him two thumbs up from the other side of the court and yells “THE MONSTER SPIN!” with all the air in his lungs. 

The ball fits perfectly in Kiyoomi’s palm, and his smile is sincere and relieved when he first slams it straight onto the other side of the court, too powerful for even Inunaki to receive it. Kiyoomi feels the familiar and missed rush of euphoria roll through him. When his eyes meet with Atsumu out of habit, however, the whole gym freezes.

Atsumu immediately regulates the flurry in his eyes, bare moments after Kiyoomi catches the hatred flashing in the shades of gold. Atsumu smiles then, clipped, and it makes Kiyoomi want to punch him.

“Nice kill, Omi-kun,” Atsumu mumbles, and Kiyoomi doesn’t even have his usual time to reply or ignore him before the setter turns around for another toss.

So… this is how it is going to be.

✵

Kiyoomi, as days and weeks pass after the… incident, finds out a few things.

The first one is that his house feels very empty. He figures his new planting hobby will make him feel less alone, since he finds it relaxing to talk to the plants - especially Esther, for some reason - and the radio helps. So he cranks up the volume, and sometimes sings along to a familiar song playing, but he never bakes and he never turns to a jazz channel.

He makes a habit of falling asleep on the couch, when the bed feels too big, too empty, or too cold. Which it does too often, and especially after a bout of nightmares, the emptiness makes everything much worse. The couch is alright, and the fleece blanket is enough to make him feel warm, so he doesn’t plan to change that.

The second one is that seeing Atsumu gets not only bearable but also manageable over time. The hole in Kiyoomi’s chest is still there, and it haunts him every single time he sees Atsumu smile sincerely at Hinata, Bokuto, or someone else. But it is sometimes so light that he can forget that it exists, especially when he’s busy doing something like cleaning, cooking or shopping. And that causes Kiyoomi’s house to be cleaner than ever, however that is possible, and him having excess amounts of food in his fridge while he cooks more, and he might have a problem with shopping. His kitchen now has a fluffy white carpet, which is for anyone who wants to sit on the floor, and Kiyoomi purchases a small sofa for the empty corner of his kitchen for the mornings he doesn’t want to sit on the barstool and needs some back support.

He also might need to stop adopting new plants, but he refuses to worry about his countertop being almost covered in them. He is merely exploring a new hobby. It’s alright.

The third, not surprisingly, is that Kiyoomi needs to take some precautions for the hole to not return at abrupt moments. It is not possible to avoid it completely, Kiyoomi learns, but he finds out ways to not trigger himself when he’s alone so that he can manage it when he’s around people. Or around a certain someone.

He does not buy oranges, for example, and he takes the bergamot out of his usual tea. He quits trying to watch horror movies, although that takes three different attempts when Kiyoomi picks the movies due to their reviews telling they are cheap, funny and ridiculous. He thinks that maybe they might turn the experience around, but it turns out to be absolutely ineffective because there isn’t matching laughter on the other end of the couch joining him. There also isn’t a strong arm protecting him from jumpscares, no matter how cheap they are. So he drops it.

He takes down the note on his fridge and buries it somewhere deep in the drawer of his nightstand. He doesn’t bake anything, and clears his browser history of the tutorials in hopes that it will also clear his greeting page of them. It does not work at first, but what works is insistently watching videos about gardening, which Kiyoomi just lets flow on autoplay while he cleans the already clean house. He hides Atsumu’s cup in the back of his cupboard, and refuses to acknowledge its existence.

He doesn’t eat his favourite fruit - peaches - anymore, either, since it reminds him of the mornings he has one for breakfast while waiting for Atsumu to turn up to cook him something proper.

God, almost everything reminds him of Atsumu.

But Kiyoomi’s determined to change it all.

The only two things he cannot let go of are Atsumu’s smell and Esther. On especially bad mornings or nights shaken to their core with nightmares of a brown door being slammed shut, Esther makes a quiet and understanding friend while Kiyoomi chain-smokes. When that happens, he almost always is already in Atsumu’s t-shirts and sweatpants; he wears them immediately after the showers he takes with _the_ body wash when he wakes up in sweat from nightmares, knowing that he cannot calm down otherwise. The fact that the clothes are never washed to protect the familiar smell hanging on them does not bother Kiyoomi at all anymore. They at least bring him some ease to fall back asleep.

✵

Everything falls into routine, after a few months.

Kiyoomi wakes up, one frigid February morning, at his usual hour again and after his usual restless sleep on the couch, hearing the weather report coming from the kitchen, bathed in the warm, yellow morning sun. The plants add a touch of color to his black and white kitchen that Kiyoomi didn’t know he needed, and he greets them, like he does every morning before checking if their soils have dried out, or maybe rotating them, so all of their leaves receive enough light.

The lilies have started to shoot forth, graceful leaves upon each other, and Kiyoomi notices he has no idea how they will look when they finally bloom. He thinks it would make a pleasant surprise, if he didn’t find out before it actually happens.

The English ivy seems to like its place, first curling around the radio Kiyoomi bought as if claiming it as a friend, then deciding to climb the wall in slow but steady spurs of growth. Kiyoomi smiles when he notices that the ivy has reached the height of the refrigerator, and gently pets the lush, green leaves with his fingers. He greets the parsleys, which are thriving, and the tiny kumquat tree on his counter seems to be doing well. Everybody in the room seems to be doing well, actually. Except for him.

But Kiyoomi tries not to think about that.

The weather is expected to be snowy, which is fine, but it has already been snowing since New Year’s, so Kiyoomi doesn’t find it all that appealing. He just hopes some of it melts before he inevitably slips and hurts himself again. He cannot do two injuries in one season.

He brews his coffee, tapping on the counter while waiting for it to finish dropping. It is a free day today, but they have an uninterrupted week of practice starting tomorrow.

 _Huh._ He doesn’t know what to do with his time.

But he feels alright today, much better than he has been in weeks, actually. The fact that he didn’t have any nightmares is something exceptional and perhaps a blessing he rarely has, although it does remind Kiyoomi of how much he’s lowered his standards. Taking a cup of coffee to have it with Esther, he hears the speaker on the radio inform them that today is a wonderful day for creative energy. Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and scoffs.

Esther looks at him judgingly.

“What?” Kiyoomi says, sipping the soft flavor of his coffee. He ignores the urge to warm up some milk and make a latte.

The plant doesn’t reply. Kiyoomi scowls at her.

✵

Kiyoomi might have a problem.

He might have multiple, to be honest.

One is his kitchen; he maybe is overdoing the plant thing, because now they started to spread throughout the house. They are in the living room, and his bedroom, and Kiyoomi hardly stops himself from placing one in the bathroom - he only gives up because there is not enough natural light there. And every one of them has different needs and care routines, but Kiyoomi doesn’t really mind. It feels like taking care of different children.

The second is that… he is not getting better.

He is getting better at hiding it, that’s for sure. But as time passes, he notices that Motoya was right; he is downright _miserable._

He cannot sleep in his own bed. He cannot have certain foods. He cannot give up making soft coffee, even though he has to drink multiple cups instead of the one he usually has in the morning to properly wake up. He needs to buy new packs of cigarettes because multiple nights of nightmares in a week cause him to finish one. Every time he proceeds to clean his house, he has to pick up another bottle of melatonin from his bedside to throw away.

But those are just small things. The thing is, Kiyoomi is tired of running away from the pain. He’s endlessly doing something — he doesn’t remember laying on his bed, just calm and serene, thinking about his life for once in the last couple of months. Because whenever he tries to do that, the hole in his chest returns, the aching continues, and Kiyoomi hardly saves himself from crying. So he gives up on that, but the incessant trail of memories does not give up on him.

He is just _so fucking tired._

He is tired of seeing Atsumu laugh joyously with others, making idiotic comebacks, stupid jokes, this, that. Never with Kiyoomi.

He is tired of Bokuto’s questioning looks at Meian when Atsumu very clearly avoids Kiyoomi, and Hinata concernedly biting his lip.

He is tired. He is tired of loving Atsumu and not having him.

But he cannot quit it. After seeing what Atsumu looks like when he wakes up, after knowing what a forehead kiss from him feels like, after hearing him hum along to nonexistent tunes when he’s showering or cooking or doing anything, Kiyoomi cannot go back. He cannot just wait for the memories to erase themselves so that Kiyoomi can finally breathe again.

It is very rare for Kiyoomi to be so out of options to ask the opinion of someone else. But luckily, there is only one person who he would trust in such a matter.

Wakatoshi picks up at the third ring.

“Kiyoomi-kun, hello,” he says in a pleasant, deep bass tone.

“Wakatoshi-kun,” Kiyoomi greets him, relieved to find his old friend unchanged and still warm. “How are you?”

“I am doing well, thank you. How are you, Kiyoomi-kun? You sound somewhat… troubled.”

Kiyoomi sighs. He hasn’t forgotten how deep his friendship with Wakatoshi ran, but he still cannot hold back the surprise at how clear his situation is.

“I would like your advice on something, Wakatoshi.”

“I’m listening.”

“There is… there was someone. That I started seeing at first only for sex, but in time I acquired feelings for him.”

The line buzzes in silence. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath.

“Then I… cut the relationship. When I noticed it was a relationship, I mean.”

There is another thoughtful silence. Then, Wakatoshi speaks, calm and collected.

“Do you regret your choice?”

Kiyoomi bites his lip. “I… I don’t know. I thought I was protecting myself and him from a disaster that would inevitably happen to us. But I’m…” Kiyoomi takes another deep breath, and lets the word rush out. “I’m not doing well. At first I was fine, and I thought that time would heal me, that I didn’t need the memories. But they haunt me.”

“I see,” Wakatoshi replies, clearly thinking. “So, please confirm that I have understood you correctly. You have feelings for someone, but you do not take action or you refuse the actions from the other side in fear of an inevitable bad ending.”

There is no judgement at all in his voice. Kiyoomi feels his shoulders relaxing. “Yes.”

“Alright. What did you need my opinion on, Kiyoomi-kun?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Kiyoomi whispers into his phone, feeling the tears welling in his eyes again. He clears his throat, looking at the ceiling to stop them from falling. “This is not working, Wakatoshi. But I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you eat and drink enough, Kiyoomi? How is your sleep?” Wakatoshi asks gently.

“I do. I’m a professional athlete, after all, and I cannot get that affected by sentiment. But sleeping is… a nightmare. Literally. Nightmares.”

“Okay.” There is another silence. “What other option do you think you have?”

“I figured… Maybe I could talk to him?”

“To tell him what?”

“That I… want him… back?” Kiyoomi asks, knowing how desperate he sounds and hating himself for it. His judgement is one-sided, though. Wakatoshi carries no judgement in his voice.

“How could that end?” he asks, thoughtful and patient.

“Well, there are two options. One, he punches me really hard and I… I think I deserve that. And he refuses me afterwards. Which… is to be expected.”

“And the other?”

“He… accepts,” Kiyoomi says softly. “And I get to apologize for what I did.”

“Do you blame yourself for your actions?”

“I don’t know, but I think I hurt his feelings,” Kiyoomi replies, thinking of Atsumu’s white knuckles on the steering wheel, his face when their eyes met at the kitchen, the way he slammed the door behind him. “What I did was the only thing I knew. But I _know_ I hurt his feelings.”

“So, is this what is haunting you?” Wakatoshi asks. “The thought that you’ve hurt him?”

“No,” Kiyoomi replies in haste, but then corrects himself. “Yes. I don’t know.” He takes a grounding breath. “I miss him, Wakatoshi. I cannot stop thinking about him. I took so many things out of my life to not remember, and still after months, I go to sleep thinking about everything that happened.”

“Kiyoomi,” Wakatoshi starts after a long pause, and Kiyoomi falls silent to listen to what wisdom he will offer. “Shall I present you with my opinion on this?”

“Please.”

“I’ve known you for years. And although I know you’re a cautious person, I also know that you will not forgive yourself if you do not act on what you feel.”

“Can you elaborate?” Kiyoomi asks, confused.

“You are not a consequence of your circumstances, Kiyoomi-kun. It simply is not who you are. You either bend the conditions, or bend yourself. This is something I admire and respect in you. And right now, your problem is that you cannot bend yourself around this situation. Therefore you must act forward to bend the conditions.”

“Oh.”

Kiyoomi knows, and he secretly hopes, that Wakatoshi would tell him something along the lines of this. For someone in their right mind to nudge him forwards. Someone to actually tell him that his thoughts are not crazy.

It doesn’t feel less frightening, however.

“What if he says no?” he asks, small and terrified.

“Then you keep living your life with a definite answer,” Wakatoshi replies easily. “It is always better to be certain of rejection than to be in the ambiguous purgatory.”

“Did it work itself out between you and Tendou-san?” Kiyoomi asks, not able to hold himself back. “The certainty overcoming ambiguity, I mean.”

Wakatoshi hums thoughtfully for a couple of seconds. “I think it did. I remember the day he confessed to me. He seemed tired, and if I dare to say it, frustrated with me after practice. It was not romantic, or planned, or even remotely sweet. He directly asked me if I loved him without any prior conversation related to the topic. I think it was my fault that I hadn’t recognized my feelings before, but it was what you would call a wake-up call.”

“Then?” Kiyoomi asks, curious.

“I could not answer on the spot. He just looked at me and told me to come back to him when I had a certain answer. I took the evening to scrutinize my emotions and thoughts about him. I think the turning point for me was that I did not think of having him out of my life before. And I had no experience with romantic feelings, although having a grip on sexuality, but I think the unclassified need I felt to see him every day, as much as I can, for the rest of my life told me enough.”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi says. Fuck, he’s getting emotional again. He thinks of Atsumu waking up next to him, warm golden eyes watching Kiyoomi with sacred tales of softness and compassion in them.

“I hope I could be of some help,” Wakatoshi says calmly. “I sincerely think the baseline to grab here is that if the suffering without him is worse than the suffering with him.”

Kiyoomi’s face stretches with surprise. “I had not thought of it that way.”

Wakatoshi just calmly hums. Kiyoomi guesses he’s nodding.

“Thank you, Wakatoshi-kun. I will think about this.”

“My pleasure, Kiyoomi. Do not hesitate to reach me if you want to talk more. See you in three weeks in Osaka.”

They exchange pleasant farewells, promising to chat a bit after the mentioned Adlers vs. MSBY match in three weeks, and Kiyoomi finds himself biting his lip as he hangs up.

_To suffer without him or to suffer with him._

He remembers the night when they sat on the kitchen floor, Atsumu telling him about Hinata. And how his stomach twisted afterwards.

Atsumu was the cause of this feeling - although Kiyoomi knows that the real reason is his own insecurities, but that is not the point here - but despite that, Atsumu was also his safe space when he felt bad. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he still wanted to indulge in Atsumu’s warmth because it calmed him down.

And Kiyoomi notices, Atsumu still is his safe space. He cannot fathom talking to anyone else about how terrible he’s feeling, or letting anyone else touch him when he feels terrible. When did Kiyoomi trust Atsumu so much? He doesn’t know, no matter how hard he wrecks his brain.

He also doesn’t know what to do with this information.

He sits down at the black couch in the kitchen, and tries to be not outright miserable this time.

He, inevitably, fails, and thinks about how he’s going to act on this.

✵

Kiyoomi doesn’t act on it. Not immediately, anyway.

This is because of his cautious nature, maybe; despite Atsumu’s brash attitude, Kiyoomi has always been the one to test the waters first. So he keeps a low profile, doesn’t comment on Atsumu’s antics, doesn’t try to confront him in any way. He just watches.

The three weeks up to the Adlers match in March end up being fruitless in terms of observation, or more accurately, as fruitful as the previous months were.

Atsumu still does everything in his power to not look Kiyoomi in the eye. He sometimes gets excited and yells a “nice kill!” at him, but still does not meet his eyes; he says it over his shoulder, getting prepared for the next toss. If there is any possibility of someone leaving the locker room and leaving the two alone, Atsumu disappears immediately and does not return. When he has to reply to something Kiyoomi says, he looks at him with a distant, mocking expression in his eyes and a clipped smile, and replies tersely.

One thing changes: Atsumu, in the last three weeks, sometimes appears with a hickey here or some scratch marks there. Kiyoomi does not watch him while they change, a habit of years, but hears Bokuto’s whistling and Meian playfully slapping Atsumu’s bare back with best wishes, to which Atsumu replies with an uncharacteristically calm voice. It happens thrice. Every single time, Kiyoomi tries to not show it on his face, and he actually waits until his breathing is regulated again to turn around and exit the locker room. He does not fail to notice Hinata’s intent gaze trained on him, each time it happens.

Hinata finally, almost a week before the match, speaks.

“Sakusa-san,” he begins, his joyous and sunshine attitude a bit dimmed. Sakusa raises his head, tilting his head to say _go on._

“Would you mind if we walked to our cars together?” Hinata asks, fiddling with his fingers.

Sakusa nods, ignoring the tension vibrating from Atsumu across the locker room, and follows Hinata after taking his bag out of his locker.

When they reach the cool, fresh air of early March, Hinata raises his head, looks at Kiyoomi with bright, lively brown eyes, and definitely doesn’t beat around the bush.

“Are you and Atsumu-san okay?”

Kiyoomi might be hurting, but he’s not an idiot. “Why would you ask?”

“I… you two have been very tense in the past few months and I talked to Bokuto-san about it, but he told me to not bug you and maybe wait for it to pass but…” Hinata fiddles with his fingers again, then puts them determinedly down. “Atsumu-san has been… off, for a while. I’ve known him for a long time, and I don’t remember seeing him like this. Not for this long.”

Kiyoomi knows there are other things he should pay attention to, but _I’ve known him for a long time_ rings in his ears. Hinata apparently takes his silence and hardened gaze as annoyance and chirps in panic.

“I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries! I apologize if I offended you,” and he bows quickly, almost fast enough to hide the blush on his cheeks. “I just… I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Kiyoomi speaks, keeping his voice as even as he possibly can. “We had an argument.”

He does not provide more. He doesn’t want to give even that, honestly, but, if Hinata recognized it, and if Bokuto knows about it, then probably the whole team is aware, and denying it will just incriminate Kiyoomi more. But Hinata stands straight again, and looks at him with newly found intensity. Kiyoomi recognizes it from the gaze he gave him in the locker room, thrice.

“Sakusa-san,” he says, speaking slowly, but unwaveringly. “Forgive me if I sound too nosey. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

Kiyoomi cannot form any coherent sentence. Hinata looks at him with that intense, focused gaze Kiyoomi only sees when Hinata is flying in the court, and the gaze leaves him no place to hide.

“And I know for a fact that you have also seen it. I’ve also seen the way you look when you think nobody sees you.”

Kiyoomi clears his throat, suddenly frustrated with the accusation and the interest Hinata shows. “And?”

But Hinata doesn’t back off. “I just want to say that, despite the risk of you snapping my neck in this parking lot with your bare hands, it would be the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen if you let this go to waste. And I would like you to know that in the process of dating Kageyama, I did _many_ dumb things.”

Kiyoomi is speechless, because of both the boldness and perceptiveness he’s suddenly confronted with. He stares down at Hinata, and Hinata stares back with his chin tilted high, no sign of remorse or shame in his eyes. He then bows again. “Thank you for taking the time to hear what I had to say. Have a good day, Sakusa-san.”

As Kiyoomi watches Hinata turn and disappear around the corner, he feels that his insides are colder than the weather outside. He cannot feel his toes, and his fingers feel numb. He walks towards his car, unaware of his motions until he rests his head on the steering wheel.

He needs to do something.

✵

They win the match against Schweiden Adlers with a final score of 5-3. 

It is kind of sweet, to see Hinata practically fly across the court again despite the exhausting sets to climb onto his fiancé and kiss him in front of everyone. The crowd whistles and claps in excitement, and Kageyama pulls back with a furious blush crawling onto his face. He mumbles something and drags Hinata out of the court. Bokuto whistles after them and loudly advises them to use protection.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. He’s going to get cavities.

He changes and leaves the facility to meet Wakatoshi at the entrance. He nods at Iwaizumi-san greeting him, and pleasantly strikes a conversation with him while waiting for Wakatoshi.

“Sakusa-san! Will you be in Japan’s national team?” Iwaizumi flashes a striking grin, and Kiyoomi nods.

“I hope so. It’s not certain yet.”

“Well, it’d be a shame to not get a player like you,” Iwaizumi says, earnest. “I’ll be the main athletic trainer. I hope to see you then.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says, surprised. “You’re moving back to Japan?”

“Yes, my fiancé is here,” Iwaizumi says. He then proceeds to tell him something else, but Kiyoomi cannot hear him because he suddenly fixates on Atsumu’s figure next to a woman. Close, too. Too close to be casual.

Iwaizumi finishes his sentence, and Kiyoomi snaps back to him, immediately apologizing.

“Sorry, Iwaizumi-san. Could you repeat what you just said?”

“Ah, it’s alright! That was an intense match; you must be exhausted,” Iwaizumi says, nodding. “Oh, my ride is here. Guess I’ll see you at the Olympics, Sakusa-san!”

“I hope,” Kiyoomi says, offering him a small curl of his lips.

“Kiyoomi-kun,” a deep voice greets him, and Kiyoomi turns to find Wakatoshi standing with a warm smile on his face. He cannot hold back, not after months of fiddling, anxiety, nightmares and insecurity; so he leaps forward, and unashamedly pulls the man into a hug that would crush another person. He smiles warmly when Wakatoshi hugs him back; stoic, firm and strong, but also very loyal and loving, which often goes unnoticed by other people.

He closes his eyes into the hug, and lets the stress of the weeks flow from him. When he pulls back, he’s a bit embarrassed at the public display of affection he’s just shown, but Wakatoshi holds him by the sides of his shoulders, and speaks with sparks of joy in his eyes.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Kiyoomi.”

“Likewise, Wakatoshi.” Kiyoomi smiles, big and bright, and for the first time in months, he feels at ease.

During the chat about the match, he doesn’t notice Atsumu leaving, but he becomes aware of his absence when Wakatoshi shifts just slightly and Kiyoomi peers from over his shoulder.

“Did you think about the solution to your trouble?” Wakatoshi asks finally, vague but clear.

“I did,” Kiyoomi replies, letting the kindness of his friend wash over him in warm waves. “I think I will talk to him sometime soon, but I’m not sure when.”

“Alright. You know I’m always here.”

“I know, Wakatoshi.” Kiyoomi smiles.

“Then I should not hold you back from returning home and resting properly,” Wakatoshi says. He continues when he sees the objecting expression on Kiyoomi’s face. “Satori and I will be in town for a few days. We can see you for dinner, if you will have us.”

“I would be honored to invite you over to my house,” Kiyoomi replies warmly. “I will text you about a date when I get home.”

“Alright. Best of luck, Kiyoomi.” Wakatoshi smiles at him again, and leaves from the rear exit.

Kiyoomi walks absentmindedly towards where his car is. He immediately recognizes the dirty blond hair walking next to the girl, a few meters behind Kiyoomi’s car. Kiyoomi’s steps falter, not knowing whether he should get closer.

The situation speaks for itself loud and clear when the girl yanks Atsumu from his arm, catching him by surprise, and laughs at him before leaning in to kiss him.

Atsumu doesn’t close his eyes to the kiss.

Kiyoomi knows, because their eyes meet, black and gold colliding in a shared look of frustration and shock, immediately after Atsumu pulls back.

It is the first real, naked, honest eye contact Kiyoomi has had since the first day, when they accidentally locked eyes together after the first successful set and spike. Atsumu’s eyes tell him tales of surprise and confusion, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know how to tear his eyes away. He wants to reveal so much to Atsumu in the very moment that he feels his eyes fill with tears. He has _so much_ to say. So much to ask for. He wants Atsumu back, this honest, passionate, angry man, he wants him back with all he has; he wants the arguments if it comes as well, he wants the fights, he wants the making up. He wants him back so bad that his whole body trembles, but all he can do is to look into Atsumu’s eyes and hope he understands.

It is watching a trainwreck.

Atsumu looks at him directly, and tilts his head for a fraction of a second as if asking if Kiyoomi’s still watching, and leans forward to kiss the girl back. This time, his eyes close to the kiss, pulling the girl into a breathless make-out session to which the girl responds by forcing Atsumu to take a few steps back, and lean on a car.

Kiyoomi feels his airway shutting and the hole in his chest returning with such fervency that he cannot breathe. _He cannot breathe._

So he turns on his heels, hands shaking, trying to breathe in and out, and miraculously walks around a corner where he knows he will not be seen.

He crouches, and openly weeps on the floor.

✵

When Kiyoomi becomes more aware of his surroundings and the fact that he’s breaking down in a public space, he takes deep breaths, burying the feelings down to deal with them later at home, and stands with shaky legs already exhausted from physical exertion. He walks to his car, perceiving nothing other than the white line on the concrete that he follows with measured steps until he reaches the familiar tires of his vehicle. He lifts his head to unlock it, but instead freezes with the sight of a very familiar man, leaning on his car, sobbing like there’s no tomorrow.

A ‘hello’ dies in Kiyoomi’s mouth, because he suddenly feels like he understands what can make a grown man cry in the middle of a public parking lot. And that kind of situation doesn’t really need a greeting.

“Hey.”

The man raises his head, eyes meeting Kiyoomi’s, both pairs red-rimmed with swollen eyelids. He sniffs while shaking his head to get his light brown bangs out of his objectively gorgeous face, and wipes his eyes with both hands before speaking. “Sorry. Is this your car?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi replies, and they take a second to stare at each other. The man tilts his head with a scrutinizing look, clearly inspecting his swollen face and duffel bag, and beats him to it.

“You’re… Sakusa, right? The outside hitter of MSBY Jackals?”

“Oikawa-san? From Seijoh?” Kiyoomi sounds as surprised as he feels, and tries to make sense of things. Why is he here? Wasn’t he in Argentina?

“Ah! It's funny we haven’t met before,” Oikawa says, his voice rough from the sobbing but his chin up like he hasn’t been shaking from the intensity of his hiccups and gasps minutes ago. “Anyway, sorry about the car. I don't think I damaged it, but I did sit on it at some point, so.”

“It’s… it’s okay.”

There is a silence where nobody moves.

“Would you like to get a drink?” Kiyoomi blurts out against his common sense.

“You know what? I can fucking use that right now,” Oikawa replies without hesitation, and moves towards the passenger door. “The love of my life just fucking asked me to be his best man. I can use a goddamn drink. Or ten.”

✵

“I don’t know how the fuck it ended up like this,” Oikawa mumbles to the ceiling, one foot unashamedly on the coffee table in the kitchen. They are sprawled across the corner couch, on their third drinks in the last half hour. They haven’t talked much aside from Oikawa’s clear appreciation of Kiyoomi’s interior design aesthetic and him demanding cigarettes from Kiyoomi.

“So explain,” Kiyoomi drawls.

“Okay.” Oikawa straightens up on the couch, and puts the whiskey glass on the coffee table. “Iwa-chan has… he’s the love of my life. I’ve loved him since we were both kids, and he was my first kiss and all-”

“He kissed you and you are not together?” Kiyoomi interrupts, unable to hold his surprise back due to the alcohol infiltrating his blood.

“Shut up, I’m telling a story.” Oikawa shoots him a look. Kiyoomi blows out a puff of smoke, nodding as an apology for him to continue. “So, we were 16 when I first kissed him. And we kept kissing, in private, calling it kissing practice.”

Kiyoomi raises a brow. Oikawa continues. “And it was perfect at first — I was playing volleyball, I got to kiss Hajime when we were doing homework together, I would sleep in his bed with him when I stayed over, we just. It clicked. It felt so natural, so right. Do you get what I mean?”

Kiyoomi nods with his chest tightening. He wishes he didn’t understand.

“And then…” Oikawa’s voice cracks at the end of the sentence, and he clearly swallows down a sob. “He went to university. I moved to Argentina to go pro. We would video call each other every other day, but something, some things were changing, and I… I couldn’t do anything about it. He evaded all the questions I asked. But I knew, I _knew_ something was wrong. He didn’t look at me like I put the stars on the night sky anymore, he didn’t really bother asking how I was getting along with others in the team, he didn’t make jokes in Spanish that I taught him. He… I was not the center of his universe anymore. I could sense that very easily. I remember how he looked at me when we would stargaze in high school… it was gone. He was not the same. But he denied it.”

Kiyoomi, fully invested in the story, almost drunk and definitely heartbroken, asks with a small voice. “Was he dating someone?”

“Yeah.” Oikawa wipes away an unfallen tear from his eye. “It was a guy from his college. He introduced him to me when I came back home during a break and told me he did it because I would get worried if I knew in Argentina, but I don’t really remember what he looked like, what his name was, or any of his personality traits. I just thought… _he_ was not the _one_ for Iwa-chan. I was.”

Oikawa’s voice completely cracks at the last sentence, and he buries his face into his palms, unable to hold back his sobs. After a few minutes, he takes deliberate breaths to calm himself down, and blows his nose into the paper towel he has been fiddling with.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do, but his heart aches at the catastrophic breakdown Oikawa’s world had to endure. It’s not that he’s being overly empathetic — he understands. Kiyoomi, despite his wishes that he didn’t, deeply understands what Oikawa means when he claims to be the right one for Iwaizumi.

He doesn’t want to see Atsumu with anyone else.

“Is it okay if I hug you?” Kiyoomi asks, and Oikawa nods miserably, burying his face into Kiyoomi’s chest and openly sobbing there. Kiyoomi raises one hesitant hand up to pet Oikawa’s light brown locks of hair, and lets him cry it out.

“Then,” Oikawa pulls back, sniffing repeatedly. “He broke up with him. He told me there was this girl he was interested in, and he would try to ask her out. He even asked me for relationship advice and bugged me about my own love life… I remember him being awkward as hell one day before asking me if I was… interested in someone. I think he was asking about himself.”

“What did you say?” Kiyoomi asks, scared of the answer.

“I told him that I was in love with volleyball and didn’t see anything else.”

“You fucking _idiot,”_ Kiyoomi hisses. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I…” Oikawa stammers. “I was _scared._ I didn’t want to lose his friendship. Sakusa, he didn’t _look at me like that_ anymore. He didn’t love me the way he once did. Because we didn’t announce ourselves to be boyfriends or some shit, it silently died and-” Oikawa takes a deep breath, trying to calm the sobs rising from his throat, “and nobody had to account for it. It just slipped away. And I thought.... I thought there would be a day when he would look at me like I was a star again and…”

“Fuck, Oikawa.” Kiyoomi pulls him back into his chest where he can feel his own heart breaking, and lets Oikawa ruin his t-shirt with his ugly crying.

They stay like that together, two men desperately in love with people who don’t love them back, both mourning for the opportunities long lost due to fear.

“The worst part is,” Oikawa cries into Kiyoomi’s t-shirt, “nothing… nobody feels like him. I-I tried d-dating others.”

He takes deep breaths to get rid of the hiccups. “I had this guy, Antonio, who fell in love with me. He looked at me as if I was a wonder of nature, but it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t the right pair of eyes. It wasn’t _him.”_

They sit in silence until Oikawa’s sobs calm down a little and he sighs deeply. He raises his head from where it rests heavily on Kiyoomi’s chest and excuses himself to the bathroom.

When he reappears, he looks more put together, at least as put together as a drunk, adult man with puffy eyes and splotchy face can look.

“So,” he says, gracefully sitting down on the sofa and stretching his long legs to place both feet on the coffee table. “What is your story? What brought you here?”

“It has two words,” Kiyoomi says with a condescending smirk on his face, probably oozing self-pity. “Miya Atsumu.”

“Oh, _that_ one,” Oikawa coos, leaning back and spreading his arms across the sofa as if he owns the place. He reminds Kiyoomi of Atsumu, a little. Oikawa continues, slurring a little now that all the doubles are settling into his veins. “I always thought he’s a womanizer, and the other twin is the settling down kinda type. Am I right?”

It hurts to think about that. But Kiyoomi manages out something, no matter how distasteful and bland. “I don’t know.”

“So how did you two get it on? Don’t tell me it was some sex one of you initiated to get over a breakup.” Oikawa huffs at his bang. “I swear to god I will cut someone if I hear one more getting attached to the no-strings sex story.”

“It… Oikawa, I was so stupid,” Kiyoomi blurts out suddenly, the alcohol weighing thousands of kilograms on his head, and throws an elbow over his eyes. At the same time, he tries to make sense of words and how to pronounce them. “We had drunk sex and he told me he loved me at the end of it.”

“Wow.” Oikawa sounds interested. “Bold. Gotta love that in a man.”

“I loved him for many things,” Kiyoomi groans. He is drunk. Gone. He needs to sober up, but he cannot stop his mouth from running. “You know that I injured my hand, right?”

“I think I heard you took a month and a half off for a break?” Oikawa supports, equally drunk and lost in thought.

“Yeah, it was 6 weeks.”

There is a silence, and Kiyoomi catches the thread of logic and structure that threatens to get lost in his swimming thoughts. “So, anyway, he was here every single day to clean the house for me, cook, do the laundry and all. I never once asked him to do it. He just showed up, did it, and left.”

“Fucking husband material, I’m telling you,” Oikawa says from where he’s lying down on the sofa, feet on the wall now.

“Right. So we… were something? I don’t know. We were something and that something lasted a couple weeks. He practically lived at my house. There is his favourite mug in the kitchen. That plant is his.” Kiyoomi points blindly at Esther, but Oikawa doesn’t raise his head, only cracking one eye open to peer at it. He hums, motioning Kiyoomi to continue.

“So I talked to my cousin. And he freaked out and told me I was in a relationship and I had this boyfriend and shit. And then _I_ freaked out.”

“Let me guess the rest,” Oikawa says, apparently not asleep. Surprising. He can keep his mouth shut sometimes.

He reminds Kiyoomi so much of Atsumu that it’s not even remotely funny.

Oikawa continues. “You either ignored him and cut him out of your life, and now you don’t know how to fix it, or you made a scene and cut him out of your life and now you don’t know how to fix it.”

“The latter,” Kiyoomi says, reaching for the whiskey bottle. He considers it for a second.

“Would you be okay with drinking straight from the bottle?”

“Weren’t you a germaphobe or something?” Oikawa asks, the humiliation and good-natured humor evident in his voice.

“I don’t really care right now,” Kiyoomi responds, unscrewing the bottle and taking a big gulp out of it. He shakes his head, violently to get rid of the burn, and hands it to Oikawa. “Don’t drink it lying down and choke on it. I don’t want to deal with your corpse in the morning.”

“God, you remind me of Iwa-chan.”

Kiyoomi pauses, looking at Oikawa’s almost shut and unfocused eyes, head tilting a bit upwards to be able to swallow the alcohol without harming himself. He looks… he doesn’t look remotely like Atsumu. But something in his attitude feels like he’s the person Atsumu would be, if he had to go through such pain.

“Man, everything is spinning.”

“Don’t drink more,” Kiyoomi commands, taking the bottle to put it on the floor next to him. His fingers brush Oikawa’s, and he holds his breath at Oikawa snapping his eyes open. They lock gazes for a second, the temperature in the room suddenly doubling, alcohol-stained breaths mixing with one another.

God, the beautiful cat-eyes that look at him are in the completely wrong shade of brown. They need more gold in them.

But Kiyoomi, right now, feels like he will do everything he can to maybe… maybe kiss Atsumu again. Even if it’s in his mind, even if it’s while kissing someone else.

Yes, that is how miserable he is.

He ignores that realization.

He closes his eyes, not out of anticipation but out of the need to _not_ see the brown shade gazing at him, and leans forward to kiss Oikawa.

Oikawa doesn’t respond for half a second, and then kisses him back.

They are both drunk, so it should not be a surprise for the kiss to be sloppy and tongue-heavy, but still it… it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like Atsumu’s calculated kisses that know exactly how to make Kiyoomi shiver or combust.

The kiss doesn’t last long, and even in his murky perception Kiyoomi can sense that. Oikawa pulls back first.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says softly. Kiyoomi opens his eyes to the wrong color again.

“You love Miya. You _don’t_ want to do this,” Oikawa repeats, the scent of whiskey puffed onto Kiyoomi’s face.

“It’s just some mindless kissing, Oikawa,” Kiyoomi says, voice rough and frustrated.

“And what happened the last time you said that?” Oikawa raises a brow, offensively direct.

“This is different,” Kiyoomi argues, still hovering over him. He mumbles while he puts the whiskey bottle down onto the marble floor. “I just need distraction.”

“Do I remind you of him?” Oikawa asks. Jesus _fucking_ christ, is he a fucking empath? _How_ is he perceiving _every single thing_ that goes through Kiyoomi’s mind?

“Do I remind you of _him?”_ Kiyoomi asks in return.

Oikawa bites his lip. “You don’t believe me, right?”

“In what?”

“It’s _not_ going to work, Sakusa. You can try it. I’m down to casual flings anytime, and you’re pretty, and I’m low-key sure it’s going to be good sex. But it’s not going to work.”

“Let me see it for myself,” Kiyoomi replies, barely centimeters above Oikawa’s face, and kisses him again.

Oikawa responds enthusiastically, and his hands fly up to Kiyoomi’s cheeks to hold him right there. Oikawa kisses him back and nibbles with his bottom lip, teasing and slightly playful, and winces when Kiyoomi bites his tongue. Kiyoomi softens his kiss, but the feeling in his gut will not let him go. He wants the rough palms caressing his neck, he instinctively needs merciless hands yanking him forward from his waist, he waits to hear the low grumble he grew so accustomed to.

None of those happen.

Oikawa moans, much higher in pitch than Kiyoomi would like it to be, and his hands are soft and nimble. They slip into Kiyoomi’s hair, pulling and pressing him further into the kiss, then kisses along Kiyoomi’s jawline when they pry their lips away.

It’s not right. It’s _not_ right.

He isn’t biting him, he isn’t growling, he isn’t looking at him with that hunger in his eyes that sears his soul, he…

Fuck. He just isn’t Atsumu.

Kiyoomi pulls back, finally surrendering to his internal discomfort, and looks at Oikawa’s warm brown eyes with defeat. Oikawa looks at him knowingly in return.

“You don’t have to say it.”

“I told you so,” Oikawa says nonetheless, watching Kiyoomi stand back up and sit down at his previous spot on the sofa.

He throws his head back, hitting the wall with a thump, and sighs.

“No matter how similar I might be to him, it won’t ever feel right,” Kiyoomi states, his murmur low but certain.

“You have no idea how much I’ve tried to prove that statement wrong,” Oikawa says, quiet from where he’s still laying.

“I can somewhat guess,” Kiyoomi says, beyond embarrassment and judgement, just fully immersed in self-disgust. “I just did exactly that.”

“And you learned something.”

“Why are you so fucking sensible?” Kiyoomi grumbles, but Oikawa just laughs, high-pitched and melodic.

But not the rich laugh that reminds Kiyoomi of wheat fields, golden grass swaying and dancing gently in the wind.

“Anyway,” Oikawa says, slurring and dragging vowels, “I tried everything. Sleeping with men who look like him. I once gave a guy a blowjob because his voice sounded so similar to him, but the language was wrong. I tried to date guys who were as… stern and loving as he was. Nothing worked out. Nobody was him, and after each attempt, I just felt worse, and worse, and worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi offers, not apologetic but his chest hurting at the thought of doing that himself.

“Do we not sound absolutely miserable?” Oikawa says, self-pity and humor dancing around in his voice. “Fuck life for bringing us down to this point.”

“Amen,” Kiyoomi says, not moving a single muscle.

After a few minutes or a few hours, Oikawa mumbles a question. “So did you apologize to him?”

“No, I didn’t,” Kiyoomi responds. He’s slurring, he’s unsure if Oikawa can understand his words at all, but it feels fucking good to finally be able to talk about this with someone who understands the _feeling_.

“So what? Do you two not see each other at practice?”

“Yes, every day or so.”

“And you didn’t talk to him?”

“... no?”

Oikawa suddenly opens his eyes, angry and vicious. “You sure look stupid with all your silent and judgemental energy, but I honestly didn’t think it carried itself so deep into your brain, Sakusa,” he spits.

“What the fuck?” Kiyoomi retorts, too far gone to be able to complain properly. “What did I do?”

“You,” Oikawa points a long finger at him. “Have the fucking _opportunity_ to ask the man you love out. He might still be interested in you. What the fuck are you waiting for? Why did you even bother with kissing me? I’m gorgeous and all, but you’re fucking neck deep!”

“What if he rejects me?” Kiyoomi asks, the alcohol pulling his most vulnerable thoughts out from him. “I was so cruel and he has every right to hate me right now, Oikawa.”

“You’d still be a moron if you didn’t _try,”_ Oikawa slurs, still angry. “Look at me. Sakusa, _look at me.”_

Kiyoomi obliges, and sees the tears in Oikawa’s eyes.

“I am losing my one chance with Iwa-chan because I was too afraid to ask for _years._ Do you want to end up like this, you fucking moron?”

The eye contact is intense. Kiyoomi can feel himself shrinking under the heavy frustration and sadness in Oikawa’s light chocolate eyes, and he remains silent until another heavy thought slams into his mind.

“What if he decides he’s interested in someone else while we date?” he asks, quiet and unsure. “What if one day he wakes up and notices he doesn’t love me anymore? After we settle into each other?”

“Then you’ll have memories to cherish,” Oikawa says matter-of-factly. “You can’t just run away from something because it will end. Why the fuck are you still alive, then?”

“What?”

“You’ll _die_ at some point,” Oikawa points out. “Then what is the point of living?”

“Because it’s all I have-” Kiyoomi starts objecting.

“Exactly my point,” Oikawa interrupts him. “You’d be an idiot to end your life early just because you were afraid it would end when you’re truly happy, right?”

“Yes,” comes a hesitant and thoughtful reply.

“Then why is this any different? Throw yourself into this. At least you’ll have an era of your life when you felt like you loved, and were loved in return.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Kiyoomi breathes, thoughts swirling impossibly fast in his mind. “But what if he doesn’t love me, Oikawa? You should see the way he looks at me. He told me he loved me but it’s so hard to believe-”

“That Miya,” Oikawa interrupts him again. “Looks like a total airhead. I get why you wouldn’t take his word. But is that the real reason or are you lying to us both?”

Kiyoomi tilts his head in an attempt to understand. Oikawa squints at him.

“Do you not believe him because he’s stupid and he looks like he hates you, or is it because you don’t think anybody could love you like that?”

Kiyoomi takes a sharp breath in at the extreme perceptiveness of Oikawa. There’s nowhere to run under that piercing gaze and he feels incredibly vulnerable, attacked in all the right places.

“How could anyone love me like that?” he asks, soft.

Oikawa, despite Kiyoomi’s expectation of another angry and scarily perceptive answer, just sighs. “I think we make the mistake of measuring our self-worth with the love and acceptance we receive from the people we want most.”

Kiyoomi’s lips part, and he unawarely raises his brows, trying to take the analysis in. Oikawa speaks again.

“My therapist in Argentina told me that anxiety is overthinking of the future, and depression is overthinking of the past. You’re doing both at the same time right now, Sakusa. Isn’t it fucking _exhausting?”_

Kiyoomi bites his lip, trying to hold the tears back. He cannot, not in this state. He covers his face with his hands and waits for the crushing feeling to pass.

When he feels like he can breathe again, he speaks. “So what do I do?”

“You go to him. You apologize. You ask him to take you back.”

The fears they’ve talked about for hours now are addressed in many different ways, and Kiyoomi doesn’t bother with bringing them up again. Oikawa is telling him to do all this _despite_ the worries and ‘what if’s.

“And stop clinging to the idea that you’re unlovable. Whoever taught you that lesson can rot in hell.” Oikawa raises his torso and manages to sit on the couch. “Let him teach you a new lesson. A new one that you are worth the galaxy.”

Kiyoomi looks at him, the pain of knowing that Oikawa has missed his chance striking him deep in his stomach. “I have one condition.”

“As if you’re in a place to negotiate,” Oikawa scoffs.

“We both talk to them,” Kiyoomi continues in a determined manner. “You tell Iwaizumi you love him, and always have. I ask Atsumu to take me back.”

“You’re now asking for camaraderie after all the therapy I offered you for free?” Oikawa whines.

“I paid it back with the whiskey. Promise, Oikawa.”

Oikawa huffs, fiddling with the whiskey glass. “Okay. When?”

“How long is Iwaizumi in town?”

“I think he’ll leave on Friday.”

“Then we have three days. Talk to him, Oikawa. It’s not over yet.”

“You know it’s pointless-”

“It’s _not,”_ Kiyoomi cuts his sentence, determination boiling inside him. “No matter the results, I won’t let either of us live with the feeling that we missed something wonderful just because we were too afraid to fucking _try.”_

Oikawa looks at him with surprise and awe, both gazes swimming in alcohol and intensity of emotions. “Okay. Okay.”

“Okay.”

A silence where they accept the promises they just made passes.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Ugh.” Kiyoomi scrunches his nose. “Please do it in the guest bathroom.”

Oikawa leaves with haste. Kiyoomi leans his head back on the wall, and lets alcohol get the best of him.

✵

They wake up to an absolutely lethal hangover. Oikawa has passed out on the kitchen couch, and Kiyoomi finds himself in his usual spot on the sofa in the living room. His headache is, lightly worded, devastating. It cracks his skull open.

As if that’s not enough, the radio in the kitchen is blaring with the weather report. Kiyoomi almost slams the machine onto the floor, but manages to turn it off after a few seconds of fiddling.

“Fuck, did we not drink _any_ water at all last night?” he asks himself, blindly reaching for painkillers in the kitchen cupboard.

Oikawa mumbles something incoherent from the sofa. Kiyoomi rejects the urge to throw him some painkillers, but instead crouches next to him when he finishes drinking his water. “Oikawa. Hey.”

Oikawa groans, absolutely nonsense flowing from his mouth; they aren’t even words. He must be a grumpy morning person.

Kiyoomi can’t think about the associated thoughts of that sentence right now.

“Oikawa. Wake the fuck up.”

Oikawa mumbles further and finally forms a coherent word. “What?”

“Painkillers.”

Oikawa groans, trying to turn away from the light that is dancing in the kitchen and Kiyoomi’s voice, but Kiyoomi grabs him by the shoulder. “Oikawa, you dumbass. Drink this.”

Oikawa shoots him a look, finally gracing Kiyoomi with open, chocolate brown eyes. “Fuck. The light.”

“I know,” Kiyoomi mumbles. “Drink this and I’ll take you to the guest bedroom. It’s dark there.”

Oikawa makes an acknowledging sound, swallowing the pills down and drinking the water until the bottle cranks under the pressure.

“Fuck,” he mumbles again as he blindly drops the bottle on the coffee table.

“Come on.” Kiyoomi helps him rise with support on his shoulders, and all but drags him to the guest bedroom. He draws the curtains shut as Oikawa flops onto the bed with a thick thud, and doesn’t even bother to pull the covers up.

“I want to die.”

“We’re on the same boat,” Kiyoomi murmurs, fighting the urge to just give in now and sleep next to him. His bed or the sofa seem so far away.

But he also feels gross. He needs to take a shower.

He leaves the room quietly, and opens the water tap in his ensuite. After a moment of consideration, he brings it to the coldest temperature he can stand, and hops in.

✵

Kiyoomi wakes up first, and the sun is setting outside when he does. His headache is gone, but his body doesn’t feel right. He feels exhausted, and his thighs hurt slightly with soreness. It must be the match.

He walks to the kitchen and finds that he is honestly too tired to make coffee. He sits on the couch, waiting to sober up on his own.

Oikawa makes his appearance about half an hour later, looking miserable and sleepy.

They don’t speak. Oikawa flops onto the sofa next to him with a groan, and Kiyoomi stares at a non-existent point on the coffee table.

Finally, Oikawa talks. “I don’t want to go back to Iwa-chan’s.”

“You were staying with him?”

“We booked rooms at the same hotel.”

Kiyoomi wants to tell him to not be a baby. Still, he can guess the stress that would seize his stomach if he stayed at the same hotel with Atsumu, knowing that he’d be in a room a few meters apart.

“Let’s do it today.”

 _“No,”_ Oikawa whines into the cushion. “I’m not ready.”

“We’ll never be ready, Oikawa. We need to do it before we back off like cowards.”

Oikawa shoots him a look filled with hatred. Kiyoomi laughs in exasperation.

“You go first.”

“Why me?” Kiyoomi asks at the double standard.

“I waited for years, Sakusa. I can wait another hour to see you’re a gay of his word.”

Kiyoomi scoffs at the terrible joke, and surrenders. “Fine.”

✵

He is circling the living room with his phone in his hand. “Oikawa, I can’t do this.”

“You can, and you have to,” Oikawa says from the sofa. “Come on, just ring it. Just start it and the rest will come.”

“Oh my god. Oh, god.” Kiyoomi presses on the call button, and brings the phone up to his ear.

Several seconds pass, and Oikawa asks him what’s going on with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Kiyoomi shakes his head to say he doesn’t know — Atsumu is not picking up.

Just as he starts to lower the phone to hang up, blaring music flows into the room via his phone. Kiyoomi brings it up to his ear with anxiety absolutely annihilating what other sense of composure he might have had before pressing the call button.

Atsumu yells something, but Kiyoomi cannot make out what he says. “Can you move to somewhere quieter?”

In a sudden second, the blaring techno music is muffled, and Atsumu’s voice is much, much clearer. “Hello? Can ya hear me now?”

Kiyoomi closes his eyes at the Kansai accent flowing over him, and bites his lip before answering. “Yes, I can.”

“Okay.”

They keep silent for an eternal, awkward second, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to say. He looks at Oikawa with wild desperation, and Oikawa just mouths, “talk!”.

“Atsumu, are you… where are you?”

“I’m out,” Atsumu replies, his voice distanced and cold. “Is there anything I can helpcha with? Everything alright?”

Kiyoomi has to clear his throat before speaking to keep his voice from cracking. “Could you come over? I need to talk to you.”

“Sorry Omi-kun, no can do,” Atsumu says, a barbed and mocking laugh tumbling on the line. “I’m busy.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do. Oikawa watches him, one brow raised, and Kiyoomi helplessly gestures that no, he is not coming.

Oikawa motions him to push further.

“Okay,” is all Kiyoomi can say, though, through his thickened throat and burning in his eyes. He hangs up to not further make a fool out of himself, and throws the phone onto the sofa.

“What did he say?” Oikawa asks, perking up.

“He’s busy outside. I think he’s in a club.”

“And?”

“He said he was busy, Oikawa. He’s not coming.”

Kiyoomi flops down onto the sofa, utterly defeated, and takes his head into his hands. He hears Oikawa muttering a soft _“fuck”,_ and raises his head after a while. “You’re still going to try, though.”

“Yeah yeah, I will,” Oikawa discards the thought with a wave of his hand. “Fine. Okay. I’m going to leave for the hotel now. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Oikawa asks, uncharacteristically kind.

“You’re not sneaking around this, Oikawa,” Kiyoomi states, looking at him. Oikawa pouts.

“Fine.”

✵

An hour after Oikawa leaves, Kiyoomi stops pacing around the house. He sits on the sofa with a heavy sigh.

As terribly as that went, he feels relief. He at least tried. He got rejected, but at least he tried. That’s something, and it relieves him.

Wakatoshi turns out to be right. The certainty is better than the purgatory.

His phone rings suddenly. Kiyoomi doesn’t recognize the number, but he thinks it might be Oikawa — he gave Oikawa his number but didn’t take his. He taps on the phone and raises it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Ya, Sakusa,” a very familiar accent in a terribly wrong voice greets him. “Ya got a sec?”

“...Osamu-san?” Kiyoomi replies in disbelief. “What is it? Is Atsumu okay?”

“That’s the _fuckin’_ problem, ya piece of shit,” Osamu snarls, and Kiyoomi’s brows furrow. “Atsumu is _hardly_ okay after that stunt ya pulled on’im. Now, listen to me real close, Sakusa.”

Sakusa blinks repeatedly.

“If ya _ever_ hurt my brother again, even by reminding him of yer goddamn existence like ya just did, I will personally make _sure_ that it’ll be the last thing ya’ll be able to do by yerself for the rest of yer life. Ya understand?”

“Osamu-san, I-”

“Drop the fuckin’ honorific.”

“Osamu, I didn’t mean to-”

“Whatever the _fuck_ your reasoning is, Sakusa.” Osamu’s voice is threatening, and Kiyoomi for one second considers hanging up, pretending nothing ever happened, quitting the team and moving to the mountains to lead a simple life. “I don’t wanna hear it. I don’t even wanna hear yer name anymore, I heard it enough for a lifetime.”

Sakusa bites his lip, trying to think of a proper apology.

“Whatever Atsumu does, I’ll be right behind him,” Osamu informs Kiyoomi. “But know that I’m onto ya. If ya hurt him once again, intentional or not, I’m gonna make sure that I’ll make yer sorry ass pay.”

The line clicks abruptly, and Sakusa stares at the wall across from him with shock.

What the _fuck._

✵

He makes himself a cup of tea to calm his racing heart down, this time allowing bergamot to be in it. He stares at the teapot, his chest tight, and allows himself to feel. He is rejected by the only man he wants to sleep next to in the unforeseeable future and threatened with his bodily integrity by his overprotective brother, but _it’s okay to be sad_ chimes in his mind. It’s okay to miss him. It’s okay to feel guilty.

He just hopes Oikawa has it better than he does.

Well, he definitely has it easier on the overprotective brother front. Iwaizumi is a single child.

He sighs, lighting a cigarette, and grabs the ashtray with his teacup to settle into the living room.

He walks slowly to the living room, thinking about which documentary he should watch to distract himself when he hears the knocking on his door. He frowns, changing his directory with a sigh, and opens the door with his elbow, unable to look from the peephole, almost certain that it’s an ugly crying Oikawa anyway.

Atsumu stares at him, hair a complete mess and his expression oozing fury.

Kiyoomi stares back in utter disbelief, holds onto the cup of tea despite his burning fingers, and tries to hold back his tears while looking at the man through the smoke that is steadily rising from his cigarette in his hand. The lingering discomfort from the phone call disappears into thin air.

“Atsumu,” he says softly after what feels like an eternity.

“What is this about?” Atsumu questions, resentful and outraged.

“Can you come in?” he asks, shifting to the side so Atsumu can step inside.

Atsumu just looks at him.

“I… I miss you,” Kiyoomi admits with haste, too afraid of Atsumu leaving now to not lay everything bare. “Please come in.”

“That’s rich comin’ from someone who doesn’t even _like_ me, don’tcha think, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks, rude, offensive, cruel and everything else Kiyoomi had coming.

Kiyoomi deserves it. He deserves it if Atsumu turns around and leaves right now. Guilt and worry are eating him up from inside, and he bites his lips worriedly.

But Atsumu takes a step forward, and steps into the genkan. He shuts the door after him, takes his shoes off - socks on, this time - and stands in front of Kiyoomi.

“The kitchen, please,” Kiyoomi mumbles, exhaling the relief in his chest, and walks back to the kitchen in a hurry and settles down on the sofa.

He hears Atsumu pause at the kitchen entrance and lifts his head to see the blond man’s surprised expression. His golden eyes scan the wall that belongs to the English ivy, looks at the numerous pots littering the counter, and fixates on Esther sitting quietly on the middle island. His eyes soften just the slightest bit, and he turns to Kiyoomi.

He shuffles and sits on the couch. He obnoxiously puts his feet up on the coffee table, and Kiyoomi tries not to smile at the haunting familiarity of what happened here last night.

His anxiety returns into his chest when Atsumu tilts his head, looking at the depths of his soul with only a pair of eyes and asks. “So, what is this about?”

Kiyoomi swallows thickly, the cigarette shaking in his hand, and looks back at Atsumu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be summed up with that tweet, stating that “sakuatsu is simply iwaoi if they had met not in early childhood but in their 20s”. here is the [tweet link](https://twitter.com/OM1KUNS/status/1341007361096429570)
> 
> iwa-chan!japanese uni is unfortunately canon, I think. i learned about it from [this post](https://unicornjellybee.tumblr.com/post/629097580450676736)


	6. rediscover communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is clearly annoying, he knows he is over the top sometimes, and people call him reckless on multiple occasions. But Atsumu had thought that he had finally made it. That he is enough now, now that he has a job, an income, the ability to support his family and his loved ones, friends that don’t seem like they’ll leave any second, people who ask what’s wrong when he’s down.
> 
> Apparently, he has been direly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, this is a brief note. There is a mention of non-con in this chapter. If you are sensitive to that, please do skip after you read “the argument gets even worse when Atsumu admits he doesn’t remember the night after taking that red pill” and just skip to the next paragraph. It’s not long, the mention lasts only two sentences, but still, please take care of yourself.

Atsumu really doesn’t make it far.

He cannot bear the thought of waiting in an elevator, so he practically runs down the 9 flights of stairs until he reaches the door and throws himself outside.

He walks to the park, and sits on the wooden bench, all his energy leaving his body in an instant. He breathes hard and rough, and tries not to think about what just happened, but _“I don’t even like you”_ repeats itself over and over in Atsumu’s mind like a fucking chant, like a sung curse for a sacrifice.

No. No, please no. It’s not possible that Kiyoomi actually meant what he said.

But there is no way he can take back everything he’s heard and they’ve done. He doesn’t even _know_ how Kiyoomi _remembers_ what he said that night. He barely remembered it afterwards himself, and thought it had gone unheard when nobody brought it up.

Fuck fuck _fuck._

Samu is going to kill him.

Samu is going to _kill_ him.

Oh, god.

His body shivers, but it’s not the cold at all. The sun is shining, and it’s a beautiful November morning but Atsumu sees nothing of it. He stares at the roots of a tree revealing itself from beneath the ground and dipping back in under the rich orange and brown leaves.

 _He doesn’t like me,_ he thinks while staring at his shaking hands.

Let alone love... he doesn’t even _like_ him.

How was Atsumu so stupid?

How did he read all of that wrong? But the kisses? The gentleness? The playfulness? He cannot have possibly imagined all of that or interpreted them wildly out of course. He couldn’t have. So what the fuck? Why?

_Why?_

He groans, burying his face into his hands, letting the lethargy sit in with the heavy, shaky breath leaving him.

He must have fucked up. He must have fucked up _real_ bad for this to happen, but he doesn’t have a slight idea about what he might have done so terribly.

The cursed thing is…. he already misses Kiyoomi.

✵

Atsumu doesn’t pick up the phone until Osamu calls him consecutively three times. Then, he figures his twin is either worried or angry, and it’s never a good idea to postpone him when he gets like that.

“Yeah?” he holds the phone onto his ear, looking at the obscene amount of ice-cream he just ate and the now empty container tube.

“What’s goin’ on?” Osamu asks, clearly onto something. “Why didn’tcha return to my calls in the last coupla days?”

“I was busy,” Atsumu replies, looking at the ceiling, trying to please not cry again. His voice is already thick and roughened, but Osamu either doesn’t notice or refuses to comment on it.

“Busy doin what?”

“Things.”

“Don’t tell me _the thing_ you did was Sakusa,” Osamu sneers at him.

Atsumu doesn’t reply, trying to control the shattering of his insides at hearing the name, and he feels his throat tightening. He sniffs.

“What happened?” Osamu asks, his anger betraying his compassion slightly, but Atsumu takes a deep breath, trying to brace himself for what he’s about to remember.

“He said that he doesn’t even like me, and that this was just a fling,” Atsumu states and the memory of the moment coaxes a hiccupy sob out of him. “Samu, I, - I swear it wasn’t - I cannot have gone that _wrong -”_

“Where are you?” Osamu asks, serious and firm.

“Home-”

“I’ll be there shortly. Stop eatin’ whatever junk yer eatin’ and get into a shower.”

“Okay,” comes a defeated answer. The line clicks.

Atsumu sighs, his head in his hands, and heavily sighs again at the memory.

✵

When Osamu knocks on the door, Atsumu is freshly showered but not dressed, sitting idly with the towel wrapped around his waist, not registering the cold at all. He is shivering, the kitchen is an absolute mess, and he has no power left in him.

Atsumu opens the door and returns to the kitchen, looking at the floor. He sits on one of the creaky wooden chairs.

Osamu joins him, putting down the container he brought along. “Ramen?”

“Not hungry. Thanks.”

Osamu sits silently, and puts his hand on the table. He looks at Atsumu and waits until Atsumu’s numbed gaze slowly rises to meet him.

“What happened?”

Atsumu sighs, feeling his chest compressing. His lips curl downwards, bottom lip trembling, and his brows dip low on his forehead. “He basically told me ta fuck off.”

“What led to that?”

“I stayed with him for a coupla days and… we were like lovers, Samu. It was unlike anything I’ve done, like,” Atsumu puts his shaking hands into his hair. “He kissed me so softly, laughed so often and real. I could see that he was seriously happy around me. At some point he cried and told me that he… that everybody leaves, and so could I. And I told him I’d stay.”

“And?” Osamu asks, tilting his head.

“What “and”? The guy did a full 180 and told me this morning that he doesn’t like me, calling the whole thing a fling.”

“What didja do?”

“I left, obviously,” Atsumu huffs, and covers his eyes with his hand. “I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid…. I just don’t understand why.”

“For the first time,” Osmau starts, “I don’t think yer stupidity was the problem.”

Atsumu looks at him, and Osamu snarls. “That fuckin’ prick is the fuckin’ problem. I’m gonna kill that asshole.”

“Samu, no-”

“What the _hell,_ Tsumu?!” Osamu nearly knocks down the chair while standing up with rage. “Ya shouldn’t’ve slept with him, ya know that already!”

“I do,” Atsumu mutters quietly.

“But yer sayin’ there’s _more,”_ Osamu places his palms on the wooden table, and speaks with determination. “Then there _was_ more. Yer not blind, yer not a fool. And Sakusa’s a prickly germaphobic piece of shit. If he let you touch’im, there’s _gotta_ be somethin’ else.”

“I know,” Atsumu replies, low and tired. “But I don’t know what to do or think anymore. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Why’dja let him walk all over you like that?!” Osamu asks abruptly, losing his composure.

It gets under Atsumu’s skin way faster than he expects it to. He bangs the table with his fist, and yells back at his twin. “Because I fucking _love_ him, ya blockhead! I’d go back this instant if he called and told me-”

“No love is worth yer self-respect,” Osamu interrupts, looking at him, dead in the eye. “No love is worth lettin’ someone else make the decisions for ya. A relationship is a two people thing, or more people, whatever floats yer boat. But it’s never in some single person’s power to cut it out of nothin’. That kinda relationship never works anyway.”

“What’re ya sayin, Samu?”

“I’m _sayin’_ that he can’t just come and go as he fuckin’ pleases. Don’t call’im back. Protect yer dignity and don’t fuckin’ call’im back, and don’t take this advice the way ya took my previous one, ya jackass. _”_

“What if he calls me?”

Osamu tilts his head. “Ya really believe he’s gonna do so? After he gets all touchy feely withcha and then fucks ya over like that?”

Atsumu remains silent, pursing his lips.

“Tsumu,” Osamu says, voice suddenly dipping with seriousness. Atsumu sighs, and Osamu continues. “He _used_ you to pass the time. That is the single explanation there is. Didn’tcha mention he had a doctor’s appointment?”

“Yeah, t’was two days ago.”

“He waited until he was healed, until he didn’t needja, and then he quit. That’s the kind of asshole he is, and I’mma beat his sorry ass.”

“Samu, quit it,” Atsumu whines, about to cry. “I don’t wantcha to beat his ass. I just want to know _why.”_

“Brother,” Osamu says, and then he proceeds to sit down again. “I know how lovin’ someone is, okay? But he don’t love ya back, Tsumu. People who love others don’t act like this.”

“Ya fucked up a lot with Sunarin,” Atsumu reminds him, still clinging onto the hope that _maybe_ it’s not that Kiyoomi doesn’t love him, but something else is going on. “He still stayed.”

“I was a teen tryna figure out my sexuality,” Osamu replies, annoyed. “Sakusa’s a grown ass man knowin’ damn well what he’s doin’.”

“We all have shit we gotta figure out no matter the age, Samu.”

“Yer really tryin’ hard to believe that he just doesn’t love ya, y’know that?”

“Because If I believe that,” Atsumu swallows. “If I _believe_ that, I’m gonna lose all the faith I have in me for fallin’ in love.”

Osamu stares at him.

“He looked _happy,_ Samu. He looked like maybe he loved me. I’ve never seen anythin’ of the sort on him before. I just don’t understand _why_ he’s doing this.”

“Believe whatcha gotta believe, Tsumu,” Osamu says finally. “Just please, _please_ don’t call’im, write to him, whatever. Don’t get in contact.”

“I can’t anyway, Samu,” Atsumu replies, feeling beaten and bruised. “If one thing is clear, then it’s that he doesn’t want me around. I can’t call him to beg.”

“Thank fuck for some sensibility in yer thick skull,” Osamu replies, leaning back with an exhausted huff.

“I just,” Atsumu says, suddenly swallowing thickly, “I left Esther with him.”

“Well, goodbye Esther,” Osamu announces, and Atsumu tries to swallow the tears back down.

✵

Atsumu’s resistance in not believing the fact that Kiyoomi doesn’t love him struggles to stay strong for a long time, but finally Atsumu gives up.

Until then, he fights hard.

He doesn’t call him. Everything aside, he cannot call him and hear the indifferent voice again. Even if his curiosity is terminal or he’s worried Esther’s dying and these will kill him, he can’t. Not after that statement.

But he clings onto hope. For a while.

It wears down significantly in the first three or so days; Atsumu paces around his apartment when he’s home, anxiously waiting for his phone to ring, for Sakusa to softly tell him that he regrets his action, or his attitude. That he didn’t mean the things he said.

It doesn’t happen, but what does happen is that Atsumu loses sleep.

His chest collapses onto itself when he increasingly more often thinks about just how much relieved Sakusa might be, now that Atsumu’s out of the picture. He tosses and turns in the bed, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand what he could have possibly done to push Sakusa to end everything so sharp and cruelly. The guilt gnaws at his already unstable sense of self-worth and self-acceptance, and he finds himself pacing around the house, mulling over what happened again and again until he feels like he’s trying to climb up an impossible wall.

He ignores the inevitable thought until he no longer can, and about a week later, after another restless night of sleep, he stares at his exhausted and hollowed face in the mirror and for the first time faces the fact that he was not enough. He is clearly annoying, he knows he is over the top sometimes, and people call him reckless on multiple occasions. But Atsumu had thought that he had finally made it. That he is enough now, now that he has a job, an income, the ability to support his family and his loved ones, friends that don’t seem like they’ll leave any second, people who ask what’s wrong when he’s down.

Apparently, he has been direly wrong.

He looks at the mirror, and tries to understand what was so unloveable about him. He looks hard and deep into the shiny surface as if it will spring to life and explain to him the exact moments he fucked up, the exact reasons why he is not enough despite all the small moments he has had in the past few years, for example seeing the pride in Ma’s face when he told her he’ll be the sponsor for Osamu’s onigiri shop, or the gratitude Osamu showed when Atsumu drove to his place at 3 AM because his brother sounded sick. Even Hinata’s warm embrace after they make up with Tobio, telling Atsumu that he wouldn’t have made his mind this clearly if it weren’t for him.

He stares at the mirror, silently, brokenly demanding an explanation on why none of those were enough to make one man love and keep him.

The mirror doesn’t reply, but instead it shows the reflection of Atsumu’s eyes pooling with tears and the drops slowly sliding from his cheeks.

His grip on the sink is so hard that his joints ache, but he cannot feel or hear anything - in mere moments his sobs drowns everything out, and it feels like his chest is breaking, letting everything out at once and suffocating in it at the same time.

He hardly walks to his bed, texts Meian that he’s taking a few sick days with multiple typos, and cries himself to sleep.

He doesn’t turn on the lights, doesn’t look in the mirror, and refuses to leave the bed in the next few days.

✵

The next day Atsumu turns up at practice, it takes Hinata less than ten minutes of tossing to gently ask him. “Is everything okay, Atsumu-san?”

“Are my tosses bad?” Atsumu asks in return, exhausted eyes open wide with worry and self-consciousness.

“No! They are amazing, as usual!” Hinata reassures him. “But you are… silent today.”

“Uh, I’m going through this viral flu, that’s probably it-”

“Aaah, get well soon, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto interjects.

Atsumu forces a smile. Nobody notices it’s forced.

Nobody calls him out on it and causes a fight.

Atsumu bites his lip, pushing back his tears, and he keeps tossing.

✵

When he gets home after practice that day, he suddenly realizes he doesn’t know what to do but that he _has to_ do something, something other than returning to bed, because Atsumu knows he won’t be able to leave it if he does that. His airway threatens to close and his eyes sting when he thinks of looking in the mirror again, or recognize the guilt and self-disgust sitting heavy in his gut, intertwined with the thorny assumption that he ruined this thing, and he doesn’t even know how he did that.

Atsumu shakes his head, trying to distract himself from the destructive train of thoughts. He cannot spend mindless hours of scrolling on social media, it is not enough of a distraction. Books are not even an option — Atsumu has the attention span of a hyperactive 4 year old for literature. He considers rewatching his favourite movies but then he remembers there will be no warmth pressing onto his right side, no shrieking, no cuddling. His stomach does a twist.

While he rummages through his storage room where he just threw the things he couldn’t bring himself to throw away but didn’t use at all, he comes across the game console Osamu gifted him years ago for their birthday. Atsumu briefly remembers the giant neon dildo he got his brother, and cannot even laugh properly. A broken, beaten up chuckle tumbles out of his mouth.

He takes the box out, blows to get some dust off of it, and settles down in his tiny living room. He rips the wrappers, takes out the instructions and completely ignores them, trying to connect things with intuition.

It fails, but Atsumu only accepts it after half an hour of fruitless effort, and he doesn’t care because any distraction is welcome in this situation. He returns to the paper, this time properly connecting cables, and takes the extra box of games Sunarin gifted him. He looks through his three options, and finally decides on _God of War._

He inserts the disc and waits for the game to load.

✵

It is _unbelievable,_ how intense and engulfing these graphics are. Atsumu finds out very quickly that he cannot think about anything else while playing the game - the “Easy” setting is hard enough for his unaccustomed fingers on the controller, and he bends his whole torso and raises his hands and does all kinds of ridiculous things to not die… and fails very often.

But, the broken glass in his chest is almost impossible to feel now, and he doesn’t think about the fact that he is so discardable and repulsive that it takes only two sentences for him to be kicked out of someone’s life. That is enough for him to continue playing the game in his hands.

Frankly, anything that helps him forget about everything that happened is enough.

✵

Osamu calls him out on it first. He visits a couple of days later to check in with him, and looks around the utter garbage in the living room with disgust. There are containers of instant noodles everywhere, apple soda cans, chocolate wraps and liquor bottles.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I’m livin’ the life, Samu,” Atsumu replies, completely focused on his game.

“This place is filthy.”

“I don’t hear a question.”

“Tsumu, this is no way to cope.”

“What, wouldja prefer I did drugs?”

Osamu sighs. “At least cut the alcohol down.”

“No.”

“Then at least drink with people. Have ya left the house for anythin’ other than practice in the last week?”

“Also no,” Atsumu says, shifting left to be able to jump off from a bridge in the game.

Osamu sighs again.

✵

When Atsumu realizes that he might be overindulging in this game culture, he already has dark circles around his eyes and his sleep schedule has shifted to settle down between 4 and 8 AM. He finishes _God of War,_ and starts the sequel he ordered a couple of days ago.

The exhaustion makes his sleep somewhat better. He figures it’s okay, since when he sleeps for 8 hours without playing games is almost equivalent to the exhausted, black-out sleep he has after playing the game. At least, he doesn’t dream that way of intense, velvety eyes staring at the countertop, the wall, the cup - anywhere but him.

✵

That Monday morning, Atsumu wakes up on his sofa, with stomach cramps reminding him what the day is about. Before he puts the game console aside, he checks whether his game was saved. Good. He’s been playing this nonstop for four days. It better be saved.

He shuffles through the mess of his apartment, kicking pizza boxes and accidentally knocking over empty beer cans while trying to find his phone, and calls Osamu.

“What is it this time?” Osamu greets him.

“I don’t wanna go to practice today, Samu,” Atsumu says, his voice groggy from sleep and scratchy with anxiety.

“Why?”

“Sakusa’s gonna be there. Stress is bad for the baby.”

“What baby, I swear to god-”

“Me. I’m the baby.”

Osamu sighs with exasperation and mutters something about hating having a sibling on the other end of the line, and Atsumu can almost see him rubbing his temples with one hand. “I don’t even know what to say at this point.”

“Samu,” Atsumu whines further. “I’ve got cramps and shit.”

“So whatcha gonna do? Call it a sick day for yer period, and hide until the fucker quits the team?”

Atsumu groans.

“How long are ya gonna run away from this? Go to practice. This is yer _job.”_

And Osamu hangs up.

Atsumu knows he’s right, but he throws the phone onto the couch and groans loudly.

✵

Atsumu wants to go back to sleep while he drives, while he parks his car, and while he walks to the facility. He is a nervous wreck, but it’s just worse because he’s been surviving with 4 hours of sleep maximum in the last two weeks. He just wants to bang and crack his skull open on one of these walls, to cease to exist and not deal with all this shit. He doesn’t even know what he feels, let alone what he should feel; the anxiety, the hope, the excitement and the anger all boil inside him, mixing to produce an ugly, mucky color. Nonetheless, he takes a deep breath, and enters the locker room, hoping that the inevitable thing he has to confront isn’t there.

Tragically, after he mutters a good morning as he enters, the first thing that his eye catches is Sakusa’s pale back, littered with beauty marks as the man pulls his jersey over his head. Atsumu’s breath freezes in his lungs, and he ducks his head low while walking to his locker, trying to remember how to inhale properly and not registering one single greeting thrown at him. It takes a few seconds to remember how to do it and he inhales deeply, opening his locker and tossing his bag in. He takes another breath in. And out. And in.

It is ridiculous that the first thing he feels when he sees Sakusa is an intense relief. Like… like he hasn’t completely left. It tells Atsumu that he didn’t imagine everything that happened, he didn’t imagine this man; he is real, and Atsumu is not crazy.

Maybe he will even ask Atsumu to talk a little today, and apologize for what he did. Atsumu tries to not cling onto that sliver of hope, but he has this feeling that Sakusa will look at him and actually smile, nodding slightly maybe, perhaps pretending their last conversation never happened and asking for Atsumu to come over. Atsumu knows, despite Osamu’s insistent warnings, that he will agree in a single breath.

He turns to Sakusa after another grounding exhale, for one second trying to put a leash on his chaotic emotions and considering what he should say without being too obvious. Despite his hope and intense desire to forget everything that happened, looking at the man’s slightly visible profile triggers a memory of the last time he saw him, of the way he refused to meet Atsumu’s eyes, of the way he slammed down the coffee cup onto the counter. Atsumu feels his jaw tighten, and the turmoil inside him getting worse. He wasn’t even worth being _looked_ at when Sakusa cut him out, just like that. The anger and guilt swell up inside him, and he notices that suddenly, all he wants to do is to slam the man against the lockers and ask him _why._

 _I don’t even like you,_ echoes in his mind.

But Atsumu cannot lose control now.

He plasters an expression onto his face that he guesses is unawarely on his face most of the time, and greets him after swallowing thickly. “Ah, Omi-kun!”

Sakusa slowly turns and meets Atsumu’s eyes, and suddenly Atsumu notices that the relief and hope he felt were absolutely nonsensical. The dark gaze fixates on him: neutral, disinterested, completely detached. He doesn’t even seem affected by the fact that he is seeing Atsumu after two weeks, not one single muscle twitches on his face, and suddenly Atsumu feels the nauseating realization that Osamu might have been right.

Sakusa frighteningly looks like he doesn’t feel anything. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t break Atsumu in half. He looks _bored,_ looking at Atsumu’s face. Atsumu tries to swallow down the nausea.

He cannot even guess what must be written across his face after seeing the man for the first time since that day. Every single drop of hope, relief and positivity sinks into his stomach with sharp barbs, breaking and cutting him on their way, and Atsumu forces himself to breathe.

Sakusa still stands at the same spot looking at him, inscrutable, as if he’s not the most beautiful man on earth, as if Atsumu is still a whole, as if nothing happened. The eyes Atsumu saw newly awakened from a night’s sleep, the hair that he’s seen at its worst, the hands that he spent weeks caring for, the _hands_ that he kissed just the way he wanted when they first had sex… they all flash in his mind, bringing forth such beautiful images and reminding him of such celestial emotions that Atsumu feels his heart mourning for its loss, weeping for all the things he now notices he’ll never have back, and actually never had as his own in the first place.

Sakusa never loved him, did he? It was all in Atsumu’s head.

_People who love others don’t act like this._

The infinite galaxy eyes stare at him, impassive and composed like always, and Atsumu, snapping out of his emotional turmoil, sees Sakusa scanning his face with one eyebrow slightly rising, and speaks before he says something else, something stupid.

“Welcome! Ya haven’t changed since we last saw ya!”

He hopes it hides whatever happened between them from their teammates, and at the same time hides from Sakusa everything he just realized. He suddenly wants to scream.

An unbidden image of Kiyoomi’s face, laughing on the marble floor, covered with flour appears in front of his eyes. He tries to assure himself that if he isn’t loved, then he can simply not love him in return.

Atsumu knows very well that it’s a lie. But he’s a very good liar - that is just one upside of growing up with a strict mother, a nosey twin and suppressive defense mechanisms.

Sakusa nods, calm and attentive as always, and resolutely leaves the locker room.

Atsumu finds himself staring at the point where he stood, and wonders, for the first time, if he meant _anything_ to Sakusa. His stomach rolls, because now he knows the answer.

✵

Atsumu accidentally lets his guard down for the first time when they lock eyes by chance after a beautiful spike penetrates its way in the air and right onto the court. Atsumu turns, out of habit, to call it a nice kill, but when he sees the happy, relieved and joyful expression on Sakusa’s face his brain squeals and stops functioning. The only thing he can feel is his restricted breathflow, and the only thing he thinks about is that _he used to smile like that with me._

But Sakusa stopped smiling like that with Atsumu as soon as he could have volleyball back to make him happy. And it took one short dialogue. Two sentences.

It takes a second for Atsumu to inhale normally again, and he immediately realizes he should react normally and not let his broken walls and collapsed structure show, and gives the man the best smile he can manage. He mumbles to make sure his voice doesn’t crack. “Nice kill, Omi-kun.”

And then he turns his back to not see the impassive gaze.

✵

Atsumu starts to strategize his life and actions so that he does not end up alone with Sakusa, which will inevitably head towards Atsumu breaking down and disgusting Sakusa further - because he already looks bored and impatient enough when he looks at Atsumu - and he refuses to look at Sakusa’s eyes because… well. Because they remind Atsumu of everything he should forget, all the emotions he saw in those eyes, every single reason he fell in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi.

And then, they remind him that Sakusa Kiyoomi does not love him back.

Because nobody, _nobody_ can look at someone they love that apathetically.

But when Atsumu _has to_ look at those eyes, he does his best to look chill, friendly even, but he cannot form a genuine smile to save his life. Fuck it. Sakusa doesn’t really care much about it either, clearly, because he refuses to comment on Atsumu’s weird, avoidant patterns. He probably thinks Atsumu should stop being a crybaby and snap out of it, if he thinks about Atsumu at all. He probably would be frankly uncomfortable by how sentimental Atsumu is, so attached to Sakusa in barely three weeks. Atsumu is almost sure Sakusa doesn’t want to stand around him more than absolutely necessary, because he is done with him and doesn’t want to see his face anymore.

The thought just hurts Atsumu more.

✵

The complete revelation hits him on a random day.

A few weeks after Sakusa re-joins the team, Atsumu one afternoon sees him laughing at a joke Bokuto told. He doesn’t know what the joke is, but he suddenly feels something slap him across the face, something that he has run away from so well so far.

It’s not that Sakusa can’t be happy, or can’t laugh, or can’t bond with people.

He just doesn’t want Atsumu.

The realization hits him hard, and Atsumu notices that this was what Osamu was trying to tell him all along. It’s not that he _can’t,_ the problem is that he _won’t_ choose Atsumu. This is Sakusa’s choice; to not love him, and instead toy with his feelings. Then he had the audacity to show up after the chaos he inflicted and show Atsumu that he can still laugh along with someone else’s joke.

Atsumu stops himself from punching the beauty out of that face by gritting his teeth, squeezing his fist and walking to the locker room with rage. He doesn’t notice Hinata looking at him with surprise on his face.

He cannot stop the trembling that covers his entire body. He only calms down when he returns home, turns the lights off, crawls into the bed, and sleeps himself to numbness.

He dreams about a cup breaking on the marble and Esther wilting, blaming him for leaving her behind, alongside with Atsumu’s heart.

He gives up on sleeping after the third time he wakes up with a gasp.

✵

The next evening, Atsumu notices that he has the option to move on.

He bites his lip as the immense sense of worthlessness engulfs him. The thoughts are an unstoppable train in his mind, ready to crash into anything on their way with no sense of preservation.

The fact that this is a _choice_ crushes Atsumu so brutally that he doesn’t know what to do. Atsumu silently wonders what he did to be perceived as a worthless teammate to Sakusa, or maybe how stupid he was to not notice that he was just an option Sakusa entertained.

“I don’t even _like_ you,” he hears Sakusa saying repeatedly.

Atsumu tried so hard to believe it was a lie. But when he has proof so loud and clear, even he cannot hide behind his fears to deny the truth.

The misery lasts hours, and finally Atsumu sits upright with the anger inside him, with an intense need for revenge and an unconscious need to prove himself that he is still worthy of being loved, cared for - to hell with those, even. He just needs proof that he’s still worth being touched. He feels like he’s been dared to show that he is, in fact, as unaffected and nonchalant about this as Sakusa is. He feels the need to prove that it was as casual to him as it was to Sakusa.

If Sakusa chose to not love him, then he can choose to not love Sakusa too, and this time Atsumu tries really hard to believe that. Or maybe, he can get drunk, high, or saturated with sex so much that he forgets that he ever loved someone. That actually works better, so Atsumu determinedly takes his phone into his hand, texting Osamu that he’s going out tonight. Osamu immediately replies, asking to stay at home and drink calmly instead, but Atsumu needs the adrenaline. He tells him he’ll go alone.

He refuses to think about his own lack of worth.

✵

Atsumu quickly becomes acquainted with the scene. It starts with one night, then he finds himself visiting the same club two nights later, then it becomes three times a week.

Then Atsumu finds himself there as soon as he feels suffocated at home. Which roughly equals to five to six nights out of the possible seven.

The people are reckless, there are drugs everywhere, and if he wants sex it’s easier than getting wet in the ocean. He doesn’t have to do anything about it either, the men and the women come to him themselves with terrible pick up lines and tasty drinks and sometimes, pills. Atsumu accepts them all, hands spread on the cheap leather of the booth he frequents, feeling like he’s on top of the world.

And he accepts everything offered to him for a good month - the group sex, the unknown snorted powders, the unidentified drinks, the joints, the deafening techno music. He only refuses cigarettes, and grits his teeth whenever the smoke hits him, reminding him of his first morning waking up in Sakusa’s bed. But the things he accepts are worth it, in the end - Atsumu takes a vicious kind of pleasure in knowing that he’s doing whatever the fuck he wants, and is called “darling” and “love” by complete strangers that are drawn to him naturally. It satisfies him darkly to see how many people want to kiss him, want to see him high or drunk, hell, some even just ask to _touch_ him. Someone offers money to watch him masturbate. Atsumu accepts gladly and refuses the money. One girl asks him to watch her have sex with another girl. She tells Atsumu that his gaze reminds her of hungry tigers.

Atsumu smirks.

But, slowly and inevitably, Osamu becomes aware that this is not a once-in-a-week thing, but a consistent, incredibly successful self-destruction method.

And then he snaps.

The final draw is when Atsumu wakes up in a room, kilometers away from the nightclub he was in, and calls Osamu to come pick him up because he has no idea where he is. Osamu almost punches him when he picks up Atsumu from the cheap hotel, and the argument gets even worse when Atsumu admits he doesn’t remember the night after taking that red pill. But, it hurts to sit, and he remembers seeing the discarded condoms and a lube bottle on the floor before he left. He figures he had a good night, despite not remembering the details. Atsumu shrugs, burying the fear and emptiness down, and lets the numbness cover him completely.

“You’ve got goddamn matches upcoming that ya’ll be _tested_ for, ya absolute _son of a bitch!”_ Osamu finally yells, almost punching the steering wheel. “How could ya be so _reckless!?_ Do ya not care about yer _life,_ let alone yer career?”

Atsumu looks at Osamu, and doesn’t reply.

“If this happens again,” Osamu says after several calming breaths. “I am going to report you myself to the MSBY administration and see it to its end that you’re fired and banned from playing.”

Atsumu blinks.

“I’m also gonna tell Ma.”

Atsumu snaps his head, his expression breaking into shock. “What the hell?”

Osamu closes his eyes with the relief of finally getting a reaction out of Atsumu. He sighs heavily.

“You wouldn’t,” Atsumu says, eyes blown wide.

“Atsumu, I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m not gonna die, Samu.”

“Those are the most well-known famous last words, Tsumu!” Osamu yells at him in the parked car in front of Atsumu’s apartment complex. “What, ya think all those people who died _knew_ they were gonna die? Ya really think they _know_ what’s gonna happen the second before they do the golden shot? And ya don’t even know what yer takin’!”

There is a judgemental silence between them as Osamu calms down. He lowers his head, and deeply inhales. His voice comes out as a murmur. “You need to stop, Tsumu.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply.

✵

The next time a pink-haired girl offers him a white, round pill, Atsumu shakes his head.

“I’d rather have ya sober, honey,” he states, and watches as the girl’s face breaks into a beautiful smile.

He tries to forget about dark curly hair and soft onyx eyes when he leans forward to kiss her.

✵

When Bokuto and Meian start noticing the bruising and the scratching, they keep it playful and light. Hinata shoots him a look when Atsumu chuckles and says he’s been having fun. Atsumu immediately recognizes the meaning behind the stare, and he’s muted mid-laugh.

He doesn’t reply much to the comments that come after that day, and returns home before midnight the next Saturday, figuring that maybe this is the end of his nightlife. He thinks the six weeks he spent freewheeling might be enough… It’s just not as fun anymore.

✵

After the victory they have against the Schweiden Adlers, Atsumu chats with Kuroo and Kenma about their potential sponsorship while waiting for Sora, Sunarin’s cousin.

“Are you looking for someone?” Kuroo asks when his eyes scan the mild crowd again.

“Oh, it’s just Suna’s cousin. We’re supposedta drive to Osamu’s together to have a celebratory dinner,” Atsumu provides, eyes still scanning the crowd. When he sees Sakusa chatting lightheartedly with a familiar man Atsumu cannot remember the name of, he snaps his gaze forward at the couple like he’s been burned by the image. Kuroo raises a brow.

“Don’t,” Kenma mutters, eyes on his phone.

“What’s up with you?” Kuroo asks nonetheless.

Atsumu feels cornered by the question, because Kuroo looks at him like he’s going to decipher his whole system with his gaze. Thankfully, at that moment, Sora reaches them and puts a gentle hand upon Atsumu’s shoulder. “Hello.”

Kuroo and Atsumu greet him back while Kenma only nods, but Kuroo just does not give up. “So, what’s up with you?”

“It’s really no big deal,” Sora replies for Atsumu, calm and so casual that it is mildly terrifying. “He’s having a rough patch.”

Atsumu groans, but Sora just wraps an arm around his waist. “We’ve been trying to cheer him up.”

Kuroo hums in thought, and Kenma lifts his head from his phone. “Kuro, we have to go. The meeting.”

“Oh,” Kuroo breathes, snapping out of his thoughts. “Right. Okay. See you later, guys! Don’t forget to pay us a visit if you come to Tokyo!”

Atsumu smiles and nods at him, and turns around to leave with Sora when he sees the huge, unabashed smile on Sakusa’s face moments before the man springs forward to hug Ushiwaka, eyes closed and hands… too much in contact. Atsumu feels his breath leave his mouth in hisses between his clenched teeth. He involuntarily clenches his hands into fists, and takes a deep breath.

Sora doesn’t understand what it is at first, but immediately moves to block the view when she does. She looks at Atsumu and just nods towards the exit. “Come on.”

✵

“So you’re really heartbroken over him, yeah?” Sora asks as they walk towards the car.

“Obvious enough,” Atsumu says curtly. He absolutely does not feel like talking. He doesn’t even feel like existing.

“I know a cure for that,” Sora says, tugging on Atsumu’s arm. Atsumu’s tired body and busy mind cannot compute it properly, and Sora laughs at the expression that must be on his face. Then she leans in and kisses him, completely unprompted.

Atsumu pulls back from the kiss in shock, and in the minute flicker of his eyes he meets the ones he tried so hard to avoid all these months.

Sakusa looks… angry. On second thought, he looks shocked, maybe repelled, perhaps a bit terrified. His expression contorts into something unreadable in a moment, but he stands where he is and doesn’t take his eyes away from Atsumu.

It’s the exact amount of attention Atsumu needs to show him that he, indeed, is over it just like Sakusa is.

So he tilts his head at Sakusa, daring him to watch, daring him to accept that they are equal, daring him not to see Atsumu as a worthless, dramatic crybaby. Then his gaze flickers back to Sora, who’s looking at him with parted lips, and he smirks before he pulls her into an intense kiss. Sora kisses him back enthusiastically, forcing him to lean on a car to deepen the contact. The kiss lasts a few more seconds, and Atsumu gently pulls back and chuckles.

“Thanks for the help, but I think we’d best leave it there, y’know, for Sunarin to not kick me in the balls.”

Sora laughs melodically. “I’m not going to push anything further. It was just an offer.”

Atsumu smiles looking at Sora, thinking that if this was another life, if he had another chance, maybe he could love her.

He doesn’t look back at Sakusa, and walks to the car feeling more lighthearted than he’s felt in a long time.

✵

“I don’t know if this is just the match or if you’re really getting better, but I’m just really glad to see you happy,” Sunarin comments while putting soup into their bowls.

“Sora helped,” Atsumu says, tongue-in-cheek, and Sora winks at him.

“Keep your hands off, Atsumu,” Sunarin warns him offhandedly. “We just got you back. It would be a waste if you perished in my hands.”

“I wouldn’t object,” Osamu says, clearly done with his brother’s shit. “I wish I ate him in the womb.”

“The problem with that, honey,” Sunarin says, putting down the bowls in front of them, “that you have good taste. I’m pretty sure Atsumu tastes like garbage.”

“Oi!” Atsumu objects, but Sora is giggling so wildly against him that Atsumu cannot hold himself back from laughing along.

“So, what are our plans for tomorrow?” Sora asks when she calms down.

“Well, apparently,” Atsumu says, waving his spoon to make a point. “Sunarin thinks the clubs I frequent are sketchy, and he’s gonna take us to a high-end one.”

“And two days later I fly back,” Sunarin adds. “Better get wasted tomorrow, so that I have a day to recover.”

“We could just drink at home,” Osamu groans.

“It’s different,” Suna and Atsumu state at the same time. Atsumu laughs, light and free.

✵

Atsumu is laughing and dancing his heart away with Sora on the dance pist when his phone rings.

He has had a few drinks but nothing too drastic, and although he’s a bit tipsy he feels his heart leaping into his throat when he fishes out the vibrating phone and looks at the screen.

It’s funny, really, how much Atsumu waited for this to happen for months but it is happening when he’s given up. Atsumu cannot imagine how it would feel if his phone rang like this back when he was pacing around the house, desperate for any bit of contact he could have. But now… his heart is beating too fast, and he feels blood draining from his fingers and toes with the anxiety, but he… that’s all he’s feeling. There is no swelling of hope inside him, nor a need to hear Sakusa’s happy voice, happy because he’s with Atsumu.

He frowns nonetheless, because Sakusa does not like speaking on the phone, let alone speaking to Atsumu, and if he’s calling it must be something urgent. Atsumu cannot fathom what the emergency might be, but he has to reply. They’re still… not friends, but something. Maybe just teammates. Atsumu doesn’t know, but he lets the nagging thought go.

So he gestures to Sora that he’ll be back, and he walks to the sides to pick up. Sakusa seems to be speaking, but Atsumu cannot make out the words, so he pushes a door and is greeted by the freezing night air of March. His body tenses with the cold, and he clears his throat before speaking. “Hello? Can ya hear me now?”

He hears Sakusa pause before he speaks, and then he replies. “Yes, I can.”

Atsumu leans back on the brick wall at the soft voice washing over him. “Okay.”

He awaits silently, for an explanation maybe. But all his indifference from before picking up the phone is gone; hearing Sakusa speak so softly, as if he’s afraid, does things to him. Atsumu suddenly remembers the night on the kitchen floor when Sakusa wiped away his tears and told him that Atsumu’s sole presence was enough to help. Atsumu takes a deep, frustrated inhale. Then he hears Sakusa doing the same thing. “Atsumu, are you… where are you?”

Hearing his name uttered so softly, after all the months of hearing the cold, distanced Miya, makes Atsumu want to groan or punch something. He cannot believe he’s caving in like this; after everything Sakusa’s done to him, it takes one silently pronunciation of his name to bring Atsumu to his knees. He squeezes his fist, and decides he won’t let Sakusa play with him. Not this time.

He has no right to ask about Atsumu’s whereabouts, anyway.

“I’m out,” Atsumu replies, trying to be as normal as possible. “Is there anything I can helpcha with? Everything alright?”

He hears Sakusa clearing his throat, as if to wake himself up from whatever he’s doing. Atsumu can imagine how comfortable he must be to call him, of all people, if this is an emergency. He knows far too well how much Sakusa dislikes hearing his voice, apparent from his avoidance during the last few months. But nothing really prepares him for the next sentences he hears. “Could you come over? I need to talk to you.”

Atsumu wants to throw his head back and laugh hysterically, maybe cry, maybe curse. Maybe just beat the hell out of this brick wall he’s leaning onto, inhaling the frigid air. So, Sakusa wants to have sex again? After all that shit that has happened? And he’s asking like this?

“Sorry Omi-kun, no can do,” Atsumu says, letting out a laugh of frustration and exhaustion. “I’m busy.”

There is silence on the line, and Atsumu thinks with fury about how Sakusa must feel about being rejected. He darkly smiles, satisfied to be able to make him taste his own poison a little.

Sakusa murmurs softly. “Okay.”

Atsumu, for one second, can swear he just heard Sakusa’s voice quivering, or maybe a shaky exhale. The word is uttered so gently, almost like defeat, and it doesn’t sound right for Sakusa to give in so easily. Atsumu opens his mouth to retort, to maybe ask if everything’s seriously okay and tell him that Atsumu can actually come, but hears the line click.

What the fuck?

✵

“Tell me exactly _why_ you want to go to the man who dumped your ass and did not even try to apologize for the way he did it,” Osamu asks again as they wait outside for Sora to return from the restroom so that they can take a cab home - the three of them home, one of them to somewhere else.

Sunarin huffs. “Osamu, you heard him perfectly clear when he first said something is wrong. I’m with you, Tsumu,” he continues, putting one hand onto his shoulder. “If something’s wrong, and if not going there will make you regret it, then off you go.”

Atsumu sighs, looking at Osamu, who has been through everything Atsumu should have gone through on his own. The crying, the nightmares, the drugs, the excessive sex, the garbage piling up in the house. “Samu, I’m sorry,” he begins, but then cuts it short when he sees the expression on his brother’s face. “I’ll regret it if I don’t go and see for myself that he’s okay. I know it doesn’t make sense, I _know_ he doesn’t deserve it, but I still-”

“Don’t need to say it, Tsumu,” Osamu interrupts him, defeated. “I just. I will kill him if he hurts you once again.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply to that. Sunarin does, though.

“Osamu,” he says softly. “If I had listened to you each time you pushed me away, and did not come back when I felt something was wrong and you needed me, you _know_ that we wouldn’t be here.”

“I do,” Osamu huffs, and turns to look at his boyfriend under the neon glow of the sign over their head, ignoring the blasting but muted music from inside. “And I am endlessly grateful for that.”

“I think,” Suna continues, squeezing Osamu’s hand gently but not responding further. “Sakusa might be going through something of his own, if he sounded as sad and odd as Atsumu felt it to be. We don’t know his process, and it’s not upon us to predict it unless we clearly see it.”

Osamu sighs in defeat. Atsumu tilts his head. “Since when are ya so fucking sensible?”

“I kind of spent a good eight years of my life in an on-and-off relationship,” Sunarin shrugs. “It teaches you a couple of things.”

“I think that’s my cab,” Atsumu squints, looking at the old, dull yellow car approaching them.

“Okay. Ya tell me how things go and if I need to dig a grave beforehand,” Osamu says, one hand firm on Atsumu’s shoulder. “If ya don’t call me tonight I’mma kill yer ass dead.”

“Okay, okay,” Atsumu says, too nervous to tease his brother. “I’ll text, at worst.”

Osamu hums. Sunarin smiles gently, waving at Atsumu as he gets into the vehicle. “Be honest, Atsumu. Remember to rediscover communication. That’s the only way you’ll solve things.”

 _Rediscover communication,_ Atsumu dazedly thinks as the lights start to stream in front of his eyes when the taxi starts moving.

✵

“I’m not going to stop you from doing what you’re about to do, but please try not to make it harder on Atsumu’s part,” Sunarin says, eyeing Osamu fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“Yeah yeah, sure,” Osamu says, absolutely not listening to him.

Sora walks out the door, approaching them with slightly fuzzy steps. “Is Atsumu gone?”

“Yeah, he just left,” Suna replies, watching Osamu almost slam his fingers onto his phone.

“What is Osamu doing?” Sora asks curiously, but Osamu raises one hand towards her. Sora raises a brow.

“Ya, Sakusa,” Osamu snarls into the phone. Sora’s eyes grow wide with panic, and she looks at Suna with worry, mouthing “ _what do we do?”._

Suna shrugs and whispers. “It had to happen, one way or another. They’ll be fine.”

The cousins stare silently as Osamu growls into the phone. “Now listen to me real close, Sakusa.”

Sora covers her face with her hands.

✵

Atsumu doesn’t know what he should feel.

The frustration is there, of course, but he cannot control the excitement bubbling up inside him. He is going to see Kiyoomi again, face to face, in his house that holds such a warm place in Atsumu’s heart no matter how much he wishes otherwise. He is not hoping for any kind of sex, and actually he thinks against it, as he knows it will make everything worse if they do that. But the way Kiyoomi sounded so… soft, vulnerable on the phone. Atsumu knows he spent a good hour trying to ignore it, trying to dance the nerves away, but finally Sora pulled him aside and asked what was wrong. And so, here he is.

He tries not to think of his last day here but as soon as he steps out of the cab, he remembers how breathlessly he hurled himself out of that building door into the park he’s looking at right now. He sees the bench he tried to breathe on. He sees the roots of the tree, now not covered in fall leaves anymore, that accompanied him through the confusion. It feels like it has been a lifetime since he was last here. Despite that, the confusion, the anger, the desperation sneak his ways back into his veins, and Atsumu groans for one second, thinking about the fact that he’s going to confront Kiyoomi.

So, he taps on the elevator’s metal door with impatience, not knowing what he’s feeling, what he should feel, what he should think, or anything related to _should_ or _must._

He feels the anxious pang in his stomach that, despite everything he’s hoping for, he might have interpreted the phone call wrong when he thought about it a second time after it ended. Kiyoomi might be just asking for sex. Atsumu takes a trembling breath in, thinking about that. Then he has the right to punch the man. Nobody can blame him for that. Not even a single person.

The elevator chimes with a soft ding, and Atsumu steps out, turning right and walking to the dark, brown door. He contemplates for long seconds about what he might find inside, but with his heart throbbing in his throat, he knocks.

He waits for a couple of seconds, too anxious to tell if what he’s doing is a complete act of self-disrespect or if he’s really listening to his heart, and he cannot choose if he hates himself more for being here or hates the man for putting him through this, but when the door swings open all thoughts go down the drain.

Kiyoomi looks at him, thoroughly shocked with a cigarette hanging from between his beautiful fingers, a teacup in the other hand. His hair is a mess, his - is he wearing Atsumu’s pyjamas?

When he sees Kiyoomi swallow, Atsumu frowns deeper. He hardly holds himself from snapping out a _what?_ but he manages. Barely.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says so softly, as if choking on his own breath. Atsumu suddenly feels the dizzying possibility of this might just be a booty call, and clenches his fist.

“What is this about?”

“Can you come in?” Kiyoomi asks, stepping aside, and Atsumu looks at him, trying to understand what his point is. Is he going to kiss Atsumu when he’s inside? Is he going to apologize? _What_ is this about?

“I… I miss you,” Kiyoomi admits. It breaks something in Atsumu’s chest, and he sharply inhales. “Please come in.”

 _Now, now,_ this is funny. This is fucking heartbreakingly funny, but Atsumu can’t laugh. He can only grit his teeth, because if he doesn’t he’s going to cry. “That’s rich comin’ from someone who doesn’t even _like_ me, don’tcha think, Omi-kun?”

He cannot hold it back. He cannot hold anything back, now that Kiyoomi stands in front of him, in Atsumu’s pyjamas, hair the mess Atsumu loves to see and play with, a cigarette in his hand and his lips curled downwards as if he… _cares._

Atsumu tries to not analyze it further, but he cannot stop. He sees Kiyoomi worrying at his lip and suddenly notices… whatever this is, _whatever_ the _fuck_ this is, Atsumu has to hear it.

He deserves at least that bit of closure, after everything he went through.

So he takes a step forward, stepping inside, and stands in front of Kiyoomi after taking his shoes off. He seems glued to the spot, watching Atsumu with wide eyes as if he _really_ did not expect Atsumu to be here. Atsumu holds himself back from biting a laugh. As if he could really refuse to be here. As if, deep down, in all honesty, he could refuse Kiyoomi.

“The kitchen, please,” Kiyoomi says and disappears. Atsumu looks after him, wondering if he really should feel this enamored just by seeing him walk to the kitchen with bare feet and his tea in his hand. He’s _fucked._ Again. Still. He doesn’t know which. He doesn’t know whether he had let go of the feelings and they now returned, or if he didn’t stop feeling them at all. He shakes his head, and follows Kiyoomi.

The kitchen welcomes him with an unexpected explosion of colors. There are plants _everywhere._ There is an ivy, curling around what looks like a radio and determinedly climbing up the wall; there are… are those lilies in front of the window? And parsleys? Atsumu thinks the tree is a kumquat tree, adding orange accents to the otherwise black and white kitchen. There are tomatoes, small and green on their branches.

Kiyoomi became a plant dad?

Then he sees Esther, in the middle of the kitchen, on the island. Atsumu takes a deep breath, holding himself back from going over and talking to the plant like an idiot, but she’s alive. She, in fact, isn’t even in front of the window, exactly where Atsumu planned to carry her after letting her adapt to the new place. Her leaves are lined, the lushest green Atsumu has seen it to be. She is taller, bushier, and seems to be thriving under Kiyoomi’s apparent attention.

So he cared for her after Atsumu was gone.

Atsumu hadn’t expected that. He feels the knot in his stomach soften.

He turns and sees that there is now a fluffy carpet, right where they sat that night on the floor, and a cornered sofa creating a warm space of conversation. He sits down without hesitance and throws his feet on the coffee table. Whatever this is, he’s not going to let him have the upper hand.

He waits a bit, silently, and then speaks, afraid of the answers he might receive.

“So, what is this about?”

He sees Kiyoomi swallow and look at him with something like fear and yearning in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let me begin by trying to apologize to Oikawa Tooru, my one and only. I don’t think he will accept it. Anyway, this idea, this catastrophically beautiful idea - that IwaOi didn’t make it and Oikawa ended up being Iwaizumi’s best man - was Ash’s brainchild, who wrote the fic where she tells the story of the wedding day and its build-up. She was talking about it, sharing snippets and all, and out of the blue I needed to have Kiyoomi get drunk with an absolutely broken Oikawa, so all credits to her. You SHOULD read her one shot for some GOOD AMOUNT OF IWAOI PAIN which honestly, who doesn’t need every once in a while? It is divergent from mine - I merely stole the idea, but we followed different paths with it; nonetheless, PLEASE read this beautiful writing. It broke me in all the right places. 
> 
> So, here is Ash’s fic: [not even half as pretty.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772079)
> 
> be careful, it might shatter you, because as i’m writing this i re-read it, and it definitely did that to me. 
> 
> god, now, about chapters 5&6\. it took me three days to write chapter 5, and A WHILE (like 2-3 times the amount) to get through 6, i think it was because my Delicate Nifty Mental Balance decided it wouldn’t handle all the angsty feelings I had to relive to be able to tell :))))) anyway :))
> 
> FINALLY WE’RE HERE, the worst is over i promise, and we have a fresh, happy path ahead. maybe. perhaps. mayhaps. don’t perceive me i have an exam in days AGAIN and i’m on the edge of hysterical laughing/crying.
> 
> also don’t perceive me naming this chapter “rediscover communication”- or you know what, maybe do perceive me this time. it is a Tool song lyric, and it is tattooed on my right thigh as a reminder. (i’m really neck deep with this fic, man. i really am.) the lyrics that really stand out for me are also very applicable to these two star-crossed boys: 
> 
> “I know the pieces fit ‘cause I watched them tumble down  
> No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to  
> Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.  
> To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
> 
> The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,  
> And the circling is worth it.  
> Finding beauty in the dissonance.”
> 
> i hope you liked this chapter, and thank you for coming along this ride with me! <3 i am forever grateful. 
> 
> as always, don’t hesitate to contact me! i love your comments and messages <3 <3


	7. canan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiyoomi looks at how beautifully, quietly, startlingly they appeared, on the day he surrendered;
> 
> _the earth laughs in flowers;_
> 
> and he smiles, knowing he will not forget how they gracefully blossomed into the cold morning, nor their violent, inevitable, silencing beauty. Every petal has the texture of sturdy silk, every flower trying to be one with the sky; as if their milk-white purity is a temporary but exquisite reminder from mother earth, of her divinity, and their relief in inhaling the soft spring air prickles Kiyoomi into thinking, _how would I look if I had blossomed into the weather I belonged?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for [Marie, my spring star.](https://twitter.com/_marssram)
> 
> I will keep this note brief; a special section was written as an ode to a song covered by the Jazz Chorus of Boğaziçi University, [“Bitlis’te Beş Minare”,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UisXnEjjIxM) and you will see the song’s name when the section starts. If you would like, you can click on the name of the song since I feel like it is one with the part. It’s up to you. 
> 
> This chapter is named after many things. “Canan” means, rooted in Persian, “lover” or “[the one] your heart is given to”. It appears in the song I’ve mentioned above; the song calls for it’s “canan”, lover, to come back. It is also the name of a woman who has shaped me into who I am and let me grow into who I am. She has been the reason I’ve clung onto life, and I will carry her in my heart throughout eternity. 
> 
> All the songs I've listened to while writing have been in [this playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4zEmNDk7uAEuCjuIYpmD3y?si=T2Ew3oJvQW2PDn2tqmAgzA) The songs are about their love.
> 
> The kintsugi reference was [Bean's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoungSoon) brainchild. Her commenting and love gave me life. <3 
> 
> Thank you for joining me on this journey. This is our last chapter.

Kintsugi (金継ぎ, "golden joinery"), also known as kintsukuroi (金繕い, "golden repair"), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.

\- Excerpt from the Wikipedia page, _“Kintsugi”_

✵

Ferns are quiet, humble creatures; they extend their hands into the sky and unroll their new fronds, carrying baby leaves and new hopes. They have neither seeds nor flowers; they do not appear in this world to be pretty, or to give birth.

They are, instead, ones belonging to an eternal cycle of healing.

If you listen to ferns closely, you can hear the whispers between their shuffling blades, telling you stories from times the world herself forgot she existed; they rustle nonchalantly about multiple ends of the world they watched, many disasters they’ve seen and survived, and many more they will witness and withstand.

Ferns are diligent; they are willful, headstrong and unyielding. They have a duty to this earth, and it is to heal; this is something known through their existence, in every fiber of their stems, on every spore dropping onto the wet soil underneath their shadows. Every bit of sunshine they ask and yearn for is used to give back to earth, to save it from poison and destruction.

They feel it when the world’s spirit stumbles and she accidentally sweeps light and life off from a part of her, and they are the first ones who appear the moment after the disaster. They grow on cold, hardened lava, on dead soil, on defensive masses of rocks. They crack stones, creating gaps for life to fill into them. They give it their all; sometimes the process lasts millions of years, but after their insistent pleas for life to come back into the newborn spaces they opened up for it and the endless knocking on doors with heartfelt invitations, life accepts.

Ferns know how to endure, how to lure life back in and how to heal. Their story reaches through and lasts beyond our imagination, but they do not boast. There is no need to introduce their achievements to the world, because one thing matters, and they have already achieved it; the act itself speaks loud enough.

They prevail.

✵

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi starts. He takes a deep, deep inhale, and frowns slightly when it does not help the suffocating feelings welling up in his chest.

Atsumu looks at him. His anger is still there, flashing inside his eyes.

But he’s here. And Kiyoomi cannot ask for more.

“I’m sorry.”

He bites his lip, suddenly noticing that he cannot look at Atsumu’s eyes when he’s about to cry. While he tries to calm himself down, Atsumu speaks, low and stern.

“Look at me.”

Kiyoomi raises his head, looking at Atsumu who put his feet down and connected his hands in front of him, leaning forward. Atsumu looks at him with one brow raised, daring him to make _one_ mistake so that he has every right to destroy him. “Fucking _look at me.”_

Kiyoomi bites his lip harder, his expression threatening to crumble again, but nods. “Okay.”

Then, his exhale is shorter but shakier, running out from his lungs in hurry. His words quiver. “I’m sorry.”

Atsumu doesn’t reply, but keeps looking into Kiyoomi’s eyes as if they will reveal something more, tell him something else, or perhaps save both of them from this. Kiyoomi feels like Atsumu could reach out with words and break his bones, all his composure, and leave him naked and crooked.

But Atsumu tilts his head, both hands turned upwards, and asks. “And?”

“And?...” Kiyoomi echoes quietly, at a loss.

“Yes, Sakusa, _and?_ Because that certainly can’t be it.”

“Well, I-” Kiyoomi starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. _Where_ does he start? What details does he tell? What will make Atsumu understand, and what will make Atsumu pity him? How will he balance all of this?

As he silently thinks, Atsumu apparently grows impatient. Kiyoomi sees that he is scowling when he raises his head. Atsumu spits out the words. “Why did you fucking call me here, Sakusa?”

Kiyoomi feels his brows rise and his body instinctively move further away from Atsumu at the tone. He cannot reply, because… because. He doesn’t know _where_ to start. How does he apologize properly?

Atsumu abruptly stands up, dusting his perfectly clear sleeve. He turns to Kiyoomi. “It was my mistake coming here. I’ll see myself out.”

He turns to leave, but Kiyoomi _knows_ he will lose it all if Atsumu walks out this door - this is his one chance to correct what he’s done, and so he immediately stands and reaches forward to instinctively grab Atsumu’s wrist, and looks at Atsumu with pleading eyes. “Wait.”

Atsumu looks at him, maybe slightly surprised, but clearly frustrated.

“Please.”

“What the _hell_ am I gonna wait for?” Atsumu says, destructive and cathartic. “For ya to make up yer fucking mind? Yer really gonna apologize for whatcha did _five_ goddamn months ago, and that’s all ya hafta say?”

Kiyoomi feels the frustration boil inside him at the tone, not letting go of Atsumu’s wrist, and he snaps. “Will you fucking let me _speak?!”_

There is a silence. A dead, threatening, exhausted silence where they both look at each other’s eyes and Kiyoomi thinks he sees some desperation mixed with the anger in the golden stare. He reluctantly lets go of Atsumu’s wrist, and feels his stomach relaxing a little at seeing Atsumu’s not moving to leave. He sighs and sits down again, motioning at the sofa. “Please sit. I need to talk to you.”

Atsumu sits down with a heavy sigh.

They rest for several seconds in silence. Then Kiyoomi takes a deep breath in, and speaks with a voice he hardly stops from wavering. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for saying things when they clearly weren’t the truth. I didn’t mean what I said, I really didn’t... it’s quite the opposite, really.”

He falls silent again, trying to relocate the words, to string them together so that they make sense and not offend Atsumu further. He tries to fill his lungs, but the tightness in his chest will not allow it. He hears Atsumu laugh dryly.

He knows Atsumu is angry, but the attitude does not help Kiyoomi form sentences better, so he proceeds to state the simplest version of what he did.

“I fucked up.”

Atsumu hums indifferently, and Kiyoomi _again_ knows he’s being mean because he’s frustrated, because Kiyoomi is not making any sense right now, but again, it is _not_ helping. Atsumu is clearly telling him he’s not patient enough to let him take proper time in front of him to make proper sentences, so Kiyoomi panickedly opts for his stream of consciousness, hoping that it might relay some of his feelings.

“Sometimes I do things… Have you ever panicked so much that you fucked up?”

Atsumu looks at him, face contorted into an expression that asks if Kiyoomi is seriously saying this right now, and Kiyoomi feels the last thread of the patience in him snap.

The words tumble out of his mouth, toppling onto one another in a frenzy. “You know what fight or flight is, right? It’s… a scary thing. It was what I felt, in that moment. I was panicked and the words just came out and… they carried no reality, no truth to themselves; they were just me trying to save myself from something I was so deeply, truly frightened of. The thought of it terrorized me. I didn’t have the courage to fight it either, so flight was the only option. It was so stupid. _I_ was so stupid. As soon as Motoya told me we looked like we were in a relationship something broke and I …. I couldn’t fix it back up. I felt trapped. I felt paralyzed by fear. I know I’m not _supposed_ to be like that, but it was so unusual for me, so new, I just - I didn’t know how to deal with it, and I didn’t know how to stay, I didn’t know how to talk about it, and I just panicked and said those horrible things that I didn’t mean. I… I felt so distanced. Lost. Numb.”

He takes a shaky inhale, and wipes away the tears in his eyes, not seeing Atsumu’s surprised gaze due to him looking at the ceiling to not cry further. “I was terrified. I still am. Of what this is. What we are. Were? I don’t know. And the last weeks have been such a fucking disaster for me — and you look fine, actually, and I know I don’t deserve better, but - it’s. I don’t understand what relationships are, or rather, how they work but I know _one_ thing and that’s that they always end, and I had to learn that so early and… I just didn’t want either of us to suffer, Atsumu, but I’m so sorry, I was so far gone and I missed you so much, the bruises faded away and I missed you so much - I’m so sorry, I-”

His voice is shaking and cracking at places, and there is no point in looking at the ceiling now since the tears are streaming freely down his face and his hands are trembling, so he lowers his gaze to look at Atsumu to find him reaching out with a single hand.

“Kiyoomi. Calm the fuck down.”

Kiyoomi swallows, eyes filling more as the emotions rush out of him with panic and rejection, and looks at him with glassy eyes, blown wide with fear and worry. He takes another shaky inhale. “Okay. Was that too much? I’m sorry-”

Atsumu raises a brow, tilting his head to ask him if _that’s_ really the point. “Stop apologizing for a goddamn second.”

Kiyoomi shuts up at that, and keeps breathing, trying to calm himself down. He shakily reaches for his pack of cigarettes, takes one and lights it with a trembling flicker of his lighter.

“Give me one, too.”

Kiyoomi slides the package towards Atsumu, and gives him the lighter.

They smoke in silence.

✵

After an eternity, Atsumu lowers his cigarette. Kiyoomi tries not to pay attention to how the roll fits perfectly between his lips, or how he raises his head to puff the smoke out.

“Okay. So.” Atsumu says, taking a deep inhale and relaxing his shoulders. “Start over. From the beginning.”

Kiyoomi bites his lip, and nods.

After deep breaths, he raises his head and speaks.

“I was not ready.” Kiyoomi is struggling looking at Atsumu’s eyes while doing this, but he is _right,_ he deserves to be looked at. As if Kiyoomi wants to look at anyone else.

But it is so hard.

“I was not ready for a relationship, because I don’t - didn’t believe in them,” he explains shakily, trying to breathe in between words so that he will not break down again. Atsumu listens to him, no expression betraying his calmness. “I still don’t have a good relationship with my parents. The only attachment that I had which did not end badly is with Motoya, and I learned when I was young that…”

He closes his eyes as the last statement fades out, and feels a few drops fall onto the back of his hand. He opens his eyes to find that Atsumu is looking at him with a soft expression, compassion lingering in gold.

“Everybody left. My parents were attentive with me, but not after I was… maybe ten. Eleven. I don’t quite remember.”

Kiyoomi swallows. This is a thick, soggy, heavy thought. “They were never there. They paid for my extracurriculars, my piano lessons, my college. But they were never _there._ In fact, I doubt they know any of my classmates’ names during my entire education, because they never asked, and I never told them. Because I felt… alone. I felt left alone. It was…”

God, it’s even harder to talk about _this_ feeling.

Kiyoomi trails off again, searching for words, now looking at the coffee table. “I don’t remember a single incident when my mother truly comforted me. When I had nightmares, she would tell me to not be silly and go back to sleep. When I had trouble at school, she would tell me to not disgrace the entire family in front of the whole community. And my father… he is a whole different story. A certainly absent one, at that.”

Kiyoomi raises his eyes again to Atsumu. He is intently listening, not asking Kiyoomi why he’s telling him all this. Kiyoomi feels his eyes filling again with the understanding silence, and hopes that Atsumu will stay after this. _Please._

“So,” Kiyoomi says, clearing his throat to maybe get rid of the lump. It doesn’t work. “I grew up in a world where relationships were neither intimate, nor permanent. I learned at a very early age that everybody could come, but they most certainly would leave, leaving a gap behind for me to fill with whatever I can find. And… about you…”

Atsumu takes a deep breath, and rubs his hands on his slacks. Kiyoomi inhales as well, looking into the golden eyes. “I lost control. When I confronted the fact that this could be a relationship, that this… it was _intimate,_ Atsumu, you know that. It was more intimate than I have ever been with anyone.”

There is a wet chuckle after Kiyoomi takes a deep breath in, slightly changing the trajectory of his words. “My flings don’t get to stay over. I don’t let people linger around. I have let you _in,_ and then I pushed you away. If I let you in more… you can walk away yourself.”

He doesn’t speak more. He bites his lip, looking at Atsumu, maybe waiting for questions. But Atsumu is silent; he just looks like he’s waiting for Kiyoomi to digest everything falling from his own mouth. Kiyoomi feels like cracking under the pressure of his gaze. 

After another eternity, he speaks again. “I never received compassion. Not in the true, intimate, scarily naked sense. And you were so… so natural about it, acting like it was a given through life, as if it didn’t mean the world, as if it didn’t make the planets go around, and I was… I was terrified. And I… ran away.”

Kiyoomi now takes his eyes away from Atsumu, and looks straight at the coffee table in front of him. There is an indent. It wasn’t there before, Oikawa must have made it. Kiyoomi sighs, trying to distract himself from the crushing weight and all-encompassing darkness of his past that he ignores every other day, with any other person, except Atsumu. All buried things breathe freely now, and they take up all the air, leaving Kiyoomi with nothing to inhale.

“Is that all?” Atsumu asks after a while, and Kiyoomi raises his head. He notices that if this is his last chance, if Atsumu is going to walk out this door right now, he has to say it. He has to.

“I think I love you,” he says, almost quiet, probably disastrous, definitely honest. “No, it’s actually quite clear. I love you. And the worse thing is, I trust you. And trusting is an act of fools. Because people leave, and I fall. But with you…” Kiyoomi stops abruptly. Words, words. He needs them right now. “But with you it’s different. It’s… I want to try. Once again, I mean. To trust someone.”

✵

Atsumu takes a deep breath, trying to make sense of the words he just heard, and not outright yell in his frustration. There is relief in his chest, but it is not only about the fact that… Sakusa didn’t mean the things he said and he… loves Atsumu. There’s more though, and it hurts Atsumu because that _shouldn’t_ have happened. He speaks, trying to not show the anger this time. “And what makes you think that I will trust _you_ again?”

Sakusa looks at him, eyes wide, and bites his lip. A part of Atsumu wants to reach out and swipe the bottom lip with his thumb and pull the man into an embrace, but another part… is _hurt._ Angry, exhausted, broken after the five months of silence, ignorance, indifference.

“Ya made me think everything was made up in my mind,” Atsumu says, his voice shaking with anger. “Ya made me think that I imagined it all. Do ya know _how_ I survived this? How just horribly ya fucked me over? I don’t even know why I’m here. Yeah, sure, I deserve an apology. But it’s not enough. It doesn’t make up for the months you _ignored_ me. For the months you essentially told me I’m _nothing.”_

“I know,” Sakusa replies, silent and guilty.

“But do you, really?” Atsumu asks, his anger intensifying at the understatement. “Do ya know how much sleep I’ve lost? Do ya know how many times Samu almost killed me? Do ya know how much it _hurt?_ To just be cut out like that, to just-” he inhales with fury, “to feel _used._ To pretend like _nothing_ happened. Not even a single remark, a mention about our time together. If we didn’t see each other every day, I might’ve just believed I imagined ya too. Why do ya expect me to believe that this is going to end any differently?”

Great. Kiyoomi is crying again, and it makes Atsumu want to cry too, but he’s too angry for that.

Kiyoomi speaks shakily. “Atsumu, I’m sorry. I _know_ it’s not enough on its own. I can promise you a million things but if you don’t feel it in you to trust me… I can’t do anything about that.”

 _I also cannot do anything about that,_ Atsumu thinks in silence. Fuck him for wanting to stay, after all this, but he does. He wants to stay, to wake up with him again, to kiss him good morning and make the coffee softer. And Atsumu cannot do _anything_ about wanting these. Despite all of this, despite his urge to punch walls right now or maybe cry or maybe scream, he _does_ want to stay. But how… how will he definitely know it will not end up in Atsumu being ignored and denied again?

Sakusa blinks another stream of tears away, and speaks slowly. “Do you want me?”

After a pause that feels like an eternity, Atsumu sighs. “I do.”

And it’s the truth, unfortunately.

After a stunned silence, Atsumu speaks again. “Are ya gonna make me regret this?”

“I don’t want to force you into anything,” Kiyoomi says in a rush, shaking his head furiously.

“If I didn’t say that,” Atsumu says, eyes sharp, “don’t deduce that I said it. I just asked a question.”

Kiyoomi looks at him, bottom lip trembling again, and almost whispers. “Do you love me?”

He… is he blind? Atsumu wants to punch him for being so stupid.

He laughs softly though, frustrated, but mostly exhausted. “Why do you think I’m here, Kiyoomi?”

Kiyoomi buries his face into his palms at that and his body convulses with heavy, forceful sobs. It is heartbreaking, to see him like this. Atsumu sighs again, letting go of the tension lingering in his body. He extends an arm. “C’mere.”

Kiyoomi only cries harder, so Atsumu slides to sit next to him and pull him onto his chest. He notices that Kiyoomi smells like Atsumu’s fabric softener and the guest shower gel he used to use when he was here, and sighs into the memories. He hears Kiyoomi stuttering. “I’m so sorry… I- I know it was - s-stupid, but-”

“Shh,” Atsumu calms him. “I gotcha. Stay with me.”

✵

Atsumu sighs, petting Kiyoomi’s curls on his chest, his nose in the black strands, inhaling the familiar scent. Kiyoomi’s sobs have calmed down with time, and now he’s sighing deeply on Atsumu’s chest. Atsumu looks down on his lap where Kiyoomi’s hands rest, not shaking anymore but fiddling with the hem of Atsumu’s shirt. Atsumu reaches with his left hand and cups Kiyoomi’s cheek, and feels Kiyoomi lean into his palm further. Atsumu closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of the man he loves, and secretly thanks the universe for him.

“We still need to talk more,” he states, and watches as Kiyoomi’s hands stop fiddling.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi replies softly. “Will you stay?”

“Yes.”

“Is that yes for today or yes for all time?” Kiyoomi asks, wet and quiet.

“Yes, for all time,” Atsumu replies, kissing Kiyoomi’s hair. 

He reaches his phone, texting Osamu that he’ll be staying here tonight and will explain everything later. As soon as he hits send, the door knocks. It’s faint, almost invisible to their ears but Atsumu perks up nonetheless. It’s… he checks his watch, it’s 02:34. Well.

He kisses Kiyoomi on the head and tells him he’ll be back.

“Where are you going?”

“The door knocked, didntcha hear it?” Atsumu calls from the entryway, and steps into the genkan to open the door.

He is stunned to silence, a rare occurrence in his otherwise exuberant life, and looks at the crying man. Kiyoomi approaches him from behind, putting a soft hand on Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Oikawa. Come in.”

Oikawa, Oikawa _fucking_ Tooru, sniffs, wipes his nose on his sleeve much to Kiyoomi’s dismay, and kicks his shoes off at the genkan. He stands for a second, and raises his eyes to meet Kiyoomi’s.

If this sudden appearance wasn’t surprising enough, what shocks Atsumu beyond words is that Kiyoomi walks over to him, and pulls the man into a hug. A _hug._ Intense physical contact with someone who just _wiped his snot_ onto his sleeve and did not take a shower and annihilate his clothing afterwards.

To his further surprise, Oikawa hugs him back and cries, burying his nose into Kiyoomi’s shoulder, and Atsumu just stares at Kiyoomi in shock. Kiyoomi shrugs a little, and murmurs slowly. “Can you make tea?”

“Sure,” Atsumu says, still a little dazed, and walks towards the kitchen while trying to imagine _how_ the fuck these two men know each other.

✵

Oikawa takes an inhale from the cigarette and immediately almost coughs his lungs out. Atsumu looks at him, a slight smirk on his face, but his expression falls into neutrality when he sees Kiyoomi’s gaze at the man.

“Do you feel like talking about it?” Kiyoomi asks, voice gentler than Atsumu has ever heard it to be.

“I-” Oikawa says, taking a sharp breath, lowering the cigarette onto the ashtray and reaching for the tea cup in front of him. Atsumu figures he has his usual tea with golden oat flakes or some shit, but he’ll have to do with black tea and bergamot right now. He watches Oikawa sipping the hot drink carefully.

“I was too late,” he says finally, lowering the tea cup with trembling hands. He raises his head and looks at Kiyoomi. He looks numb. Kiyoomi doesn’t comment on that. “I was too late. Years too late.”

Kiyoomi reaches out and lightly touches Oikawa’s forearm, and Oikawa sighs, looking at a point at the coffee table in the living room. His shivers aren’t completely gone. Atsumu doesn’t speak, but his vision is clear enough to understand that Kiyoomi values Oikawa’s presence. So he turns around, grabs the fleece blanket, and gives it to Oikawa.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, wrapping himself into it.

There is silence in the smoke rising from the ashtray as the tea slowly evaporates to soften the smell of cigarettes in the living room. Kiyoomi doesn’t seem to care. Atsumu wonders, silently, how much he let go of caring in the last few months. How much they both did.

“I asked over drinks,” Oikawa says, voice shaking. “I… I told him I loved him. All these years, and I was sure I would love him forever, but I didn’t tell him that. Then he…” Oikawa takes a profound, stuttering inhale, and wipes his eyes. “He told me I was too late. That if I had reached out back in high school, or college even, we could’ve made it. He loved me, Sakusa, he did-”

As Oikawa breaks down with sobs, Kiyoomi’s expression shatters into one of sorrow and heartbreak, and Atsumu watches Kiyoomi gently wrapping his arms around Oikawa.

“He said he l-loved m-me, back in h-high school,” Oikawa stutters, trying to breathe between the hiccups and the tears. “Then, h-he said, he spent y-years trying to mo-move on, and he finally has, and that I h-had no right to just come out of nowhere now and-”

“Shh,” Kiyoomi says, chin on top of Oikawa’s brown tufts, holding the man back from shattering into pieces. He locks eyes with Atsumu, and Atsumu feels his own heart breaking at the possible end they just avoided.

“He was mad. He almost yelled at me, but didn’t. He told me that… he waited for me to make a move, and when… I didn’t he figured I didn’t love him that way,” Oikawa says, breath somewhat calmed down but speaking is still clearly hard for him. He pauses between words and tries to pick himself back up. 

Atsumu can feel the mourning. He obviously lacks a background story, but the things he’s heard are enough — Oikawa was late. An irrevocable kind of lateness, at that; he remembers seeing Kiyoomi speak with the man he can now name, Iwaizumi-san, at the lobby after the match. Was that what this was about?

Well, if it was, it apparently didn’t work out well. He wants to ask if Iwaizumi has a partner now, or if he’s rejecting Oikawa loud and clear despite being single, but Oikawa answers him unprompted.

“I’m… still going to be his best man.”

“What the fuck?” Kiyoomi and Atsumu ask at the same time, and their eyes meet in shock. Kiyoomi turns to Oikawa.

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself?”

“I promised, okay?!” Oikawa exclaims, heart and voice cracking. “I’ve been his best friend. I’m still his best friend. I was there when he wanted to ask her out, when he asked me advice on what ring to buy her, when-”

“Oikawa,” Kiyoomi says, heartbroken.

“I just…” Oikawa takes a deep inhale. “I have to do it. I can’t let him down like that.”

They sit in silence.

✵

Atsumu wakes up first. He doesn’t have the time to notice how the three of them fell asleep on top of one another, Atsumu’s head on Oikawa’s lap and Oikawa half on top of Kiyoomi, who is sleeping on the corner of the sofa. The blaring sound coming from the kitchen jolts him suddenly out of his sleep and he topples over himself running to the kitchen to see what is happening.

There is… nothing on fire. No sign of breaking in but…

 _Fuck,_ Atsumu thinks to himself. It’s the goddamn radio.

An energetic voice on the radio announces it will not snow in the foreseeable future, and that today will be sunny without clouds. Atsumu groans, trying to turn off the radio, and finds the off button somewhere on the back. He leans on the counter trying to calm down his racing heart, and hears the sleepy footsteps of someone approaching the kitchen.

He sees Kiyoomi, wrapped in the thick, yellow, woven blanket - the fleece one must have stayed on Oikawa - and his ridiculous bedhead. Atsumu smiles as Kiyoomi comes closer and finally buries his nose in the crook of Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu wraps his arms around him, leaning further back on the counter, and kisses Kiyoomi’s neck softly. They are not wet nor lustful; they are simply soft, warm, loving kisses of the morning sun. Kiyoomi murmurs something into Atsumu’s neck.

“What was that?”

“Gwwd mwrnging,” Kiyoomi murmurs, slightly audible this time.

“Mornin’ to ya too,” Atsumu says with a soft smile on his face.

Kiyoomi pulls back, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and Atsumu feels every ounce of his pain and frustration vanish into thin air when he looks at the man he adores, vulnerable, sleepy and so loveable.

He almost whispers it, but holds himself back.

Not the time. They still need to talk about things.

He instead kisses Kiyoomi on the forehead, and leaves him to start with the moka pot.

Kiyoomi groans, swaying on his feet a little, and then slowly walks towards the sofa to collapse on it. He wraps the blanket around himself imperceptibly tighter, and watches Atsumu brew coffee.

“I drink it softer now,” Atsumu hears him murmur. He freezes in the middle of putting coffee into the pot, and stares in shock at the lilies at the brink of blossoming. He turns around slowly, and sees that Kiyoomi’s eyes are shut.

“Ya could’ve just called me and told me ya missed me,” he teases despite his softly cracking heart, and Kiyoomi groans again.

“After how last night went, do you really think that would have gone over well?”

Atsumu chuckles lightly, turning back to the moka pot, and proceeds to tighten it. He ignites the oven, and puts the pot onto the fire. Then he walks towards the black sofa, and pulls Kiyoomi’s head onto his lap after sitting.

“Ya smell like an ashtray.”

“I haven't showered yet,” The tone is attempted to be plaintive, but Atsumu can hear the tiny whine to it. He looks at Kiyoomi with a soft smile on his face; he is still sleepy, eyes puffy from all the crying and the soft mouth turned down so slightly like he’s holding back a little pout. Atsumu can hardly hold himself back from kissing him. He instead plays with the black curls until he hears the familiar hissing and boiling sounds coming from the coffee pot.

Oikawa walks in with the fleece blanket wrapped around his shoulders as Atsumu and Kiyoomi settle properly on the sofa, coffee mugs on the table and Kiyoomi unconsciously half on top of Atsumu’s lap again. Oikawa throws them a look, and moves forward to take some coffee for himself.

“Make yerself home,” Atsumu teases, and hears Kiyoomi laugh quietly into his neck. He involuntarily bends his head, and rests it on top of Kiyoomi’s curls.

“I’m taking that your talk last night went better than mine,” Oikawa states, ignoring Atsumu’s comment completely. He sits down on the sofa heavily, and throws his feet onto the coffee table. Atsumu raises a brow.

“What exactly do ya know?” he asks, reaching for his coffee, careful to not shuffle Kiyoomi on his chest.

“Everything, pretty much,” Kiyoomi replies in a crooked voice, and clears his throat after that.

“Saying ‘I love you’ on the first night? Bold, Miya,” Oikawa says, sipping his coffee with raised brows.

“What can I say?” Atsumu says, leaning back and relaxing his arms on the top of the sofa. “I’m clear about what I want.”

“That’s why you left him hanging for months, right?” Oikawa says, tilting his head and flashing his signature smile. “Don’t worry, it was his fault. But still, I wonder what he’d do if it hadn’t been for our talk.”

“Exactly _how_ didja two meet?” Atsumu asks, glancing between the man on his chest and Oikawa on his diagonal.

“A fabulous one night stand,” Oikawa says nonchalantly.

Kiyoomi chokes in laughter and pulls back to look at Atsumu’s shocked expression. Atsumu turns to look at him in horror. Kiyoomi laughs softly, and kisses him on the cheek. “He was crying on my car.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, his heart still racing.

“I wasn’t the only-”

“Shut up, Oikawa,” Kiyoomi interrupts as Atsumu raises a brow. Oikawa huffs indignantly and Kiyoomi reaches over to the table to grab his mug.

“Anyway,” Oikawa says. “We ended up talking. Pretty much about everything. And here we are,” he continues, raising his cup to the both of them. “Kanpai, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Atsumu murmurs into his coffee cup. Oikawa and Kiyoomi. Two completely opposite people… but then again, so are Atsumu and Kiyoomi. He figures it’s not really a surprise.

“What are your plans today?” Oikawa asks, gazing out the window.

“Ya tryna be our third wheel?” Atsumu teases him.

Oikawa scrunches his nose. “Don’t be fucking gross. I was going to ask if you could drop me off if you’re planning to go out.”

“I don’t plan on leavin’ today,” Atsumu states. Kiyoomi provides an affirmative nod.

“God, you two went from enemies to lovers real quick,” Oikawa groans. “I want to take last night’s pep talk back.”

“Too late, Oiks,” Atsumu says, grinning wide. “We’re here. Deal with it.”

“Do _not_ call me that.” Oikawa glares at him.

“It’s not going to work,” Kiyoomi informs Oikawa. “He’s been calling me Omi since the moment I told him my full name.”

“Don’t hafta pretend ya don’t like it,” Atsumu says, hugging him tighter. Kiyoomi laughs into his chest.

Oikawa pouts. “I feel so lonely looking at you two.”

Kiyoomi, again to Atsumu’s surprise, extends one arm, inviting Oikawa into the hug. Oikawa shamelessly scoots over and hugs Kiyoomi from behind.

“Is this what a love train is like?” Atsumu murmurs, hugging Kiyoomi possessively.

“Are you jealous?” Oikawa asks. “We all slept on the same couch last night, you’re aware, right?”

“Got an eye on ya,” Atsumu says, squinting at him.

Oikawa laughs, high pitched and tired. “Bleach-kun, we wouldn’t be here if I wanted your man.”

“Better safe than sorry, Oiks,” Atsumu informs him, still squinting.

Oikawa rolls his eyes.

“Is that a battle of nicknames you have going on there?” Kiyoomi asks, muffled, sandwiched between the two men. “Do not drag me into it.”

“Bleach-kun started it,” Oikawa states, offended.

“Shut up, Oik-oik,” Atsumu retorts, grinning.

“Ugh.”

They sit in silence for a while, until Oikawa pulls back from the hug and chirps. “Is anyone else hungry? I’m starving.”

“There is sushi, onigiri and tonkatsu in the fridge,” Kiyoomi informs him. He doesn’t seem like he has any intentions of leaving the hug Atsumu has him enveloped in, and Atsumu cannot help the warmth spreading into his chest at that realization.

Oikawa makes an approving sound, and takes two long steps before swinging open the fridge door. He lets out a gasp. “Are you planning to feed the whole of Japan?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “Cooking took my mind off of things.” 

Atsumu hugs him tighter, wishing he could kiss the sadness of the last few awful, terrible months away. Kiyoomi raises his head a little, and presses a warm kiss on the side of Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu bites his lip, feeling the electric zapping its way through his chest, legs, and right to his toes, and the warmth simmers softly inside his chest like a welcoming bath. Kiyoomi doesn’t seem to notice. Atsumu chuckles, marveling at the fact that one innocent, loving kiss from this man manages to do everything that other people couldn’t when he had sex with them.

He presses a kiss onto Kiyoomi’s head, and thanks the universe for him.

✵

Oikawa exits dramatically, which is absolutely no surprise to Atsumu. Kiyoomi’s fond scoff at the cheerful “see you later, peasant lovebirds!” tells him that Kiyoomi is probably used to it at this point. Kiyoomi calls from the kitchen, telling him to come over if he’s not feeling okay, and Oikawa chirps a thank you before they hear the front door slam. Kiyoomi lets out a heavy sigh. He’s sitting next to Atsumu now, but his right leg is still thrown over Atsumu’s left thigh. Atsumu watches as Kiyoomi throws his head back and the curls fall onto the pale skin under gravity’s heavy pull.

“Ya feelin’ okay?” he asks, gently squeezing Kiyoomi’s slender hand, intertwined with his own.

Kiyoomi nods. He slowly turns his head to look at him, and Atsumu reaches out to tuck the curly strands behind his ear. Kiyoomi mindlessly holds his hand, and kisses the palm.

They lock eyes, and Atsumu smiles, all warmth and sunshine.

“About last night,” Atsumu begins.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Thank ya for callin’,” Atsumu replies.

Kiyoomi offers him a small smile.

“I think we needta talk more about how ya and I felt,” Atsumu says, careful fingers caressing Kiyoomi’s soft cheek. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and hums.

“Can we talk a little closer?” Kiyoomi asks, throwing another thigh onto Atsumu and wrapping his arms around his torso. He dips his nose into the crook of Atsumu’s neck as if it always belonged there, and Atsumu finds himself smiling.

So they talk.

✵ bitlis’te beş minare ✵

They talk for days.

Kiyoomi tells Atsumu about his months of second guessing. He tells him about his talks with Wakatoshi, he tells him that Hinata pulled him aside (although he vaguely mentions what Hinata told him), he tells him how Motoya almost slapped him because of his idiocy. How everyone, except for them, seemed to know what was going on. How lost he felt, just like how he felt as a child, and how lonely. How scared he was of Atsumu feeling things for Hinata, still. How absolutely, utterly abandoned, by his own wrongdoing, by his choices, by what life brought him.

He tells Atsumu all, and sighs, hugging him, thanking the universe for him.

Atsumu, in return, tells Kiyoomi how he felt after he left. How worthless and unlovable. How he noticed that it was a choice, one day. He tells Kiyoomi he fooled around, trying to find something that could make him feel, how he was incredibly reckless and frustratingly stupid about it. Kiyoomi hugs him silently when he averts his eyes, skipping some parts of the story. Atsumu tells him about the games he played. He tells him about Sora, and seeing the darkness in Kiyoomi’s eyes, he reassures him that nothing serious happened.

Then, Kiyoomi introduces him to their new plants, and Atsumu offers names for each one of them. The ivy on the wall receives the name Irene, and the parsleys are Ron Weasleys for some reason. When Kiyoomi asks why Atsumu doesn’t name them something in Japanese, he just grins at him and says it’s good to have international friends. Kiyoomi smiles at the goofiness when he turns around. The three lilies are named by Kiyoomi, then: _shinju._ Pearls. He explains to Atsumu that he’s been waiting for months for them to blossom, and Atsumu nods sagely, telling him the patience will pay off in laughter from their flowers. Kiyoomi’s lips twist in adoration.

Kiyoomi cries, too. He cries when he explains he got the radio because cooking without music was unbearable. He cries unexpectedly when Atsumu hums along to a song while he cooks dinner for the both of them for the first time after their talk. He cries when he wakes up from nightmares, in his bed, next to Atsumu, when Atsumu hugs him and showers him with sweet whispers of love until Kiyoomi falls back asleep again.

He cries especially hard when one night he wakes up and doesn’t find Atsumu next to him. In his panic he walks to the kitchen to find out that it is almost the morning, and Atsumu is having a cigarette with his coffee, talking quietly to Esther. He apparently doesn’t hear Kiyoomi’s footsteps. Kiyoomi steps back, leaning onto the wall, and listens, trying to calm down.

“I missed ya too,” Atsumu says in probable smoke after a long sizzling sound coming from the cigarette. “I’m glad that at least when I wasn’t, ya were with him.”

Esther doesn’t reply. Kiyoomi can hear the smile in Atsumu’s voice despite not seeing him. “Ya don’t hafta tell me how bad it was. I can guess. Again, I’m sorry I left ya behind, but I think we’ll be better together, huh?”

Kiyoomi, his back on the wall, sighs in relief. After all of this, reminders of Atsumu’s intentions to stay soothe him to no end. He does, sometimes, get frustrated with himself for needing constant reassurance, but until he knows how this thing works, Atsumu will be by his side.

He walks into the kitchen. Atsumu hears him, and turns around on the bar stool with a worried expression on his face. “Ya okay, baby?”

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Kiyoomi asks as he unashamedly buries his face into Atsumu’s neck, where it’s exposed from the baggy sweater he’s wearing. Atsumu’s arm wraps around him, holding him steady and strong, and he interlaces his other hand with Kiyoomi’s.

“I needed some time alone to think,” Atsumu says honestly, littering Kiyoomi’s hand with kisses. Kiyoomi raises his head while Atsumu kisses his knuckles.

“I love you,” he mutters softly, afraid of breaking.

Atsumu looks at him, quiet and still. They haven’t said it again since the first night, allowing each other space and time to digest things. They haven’t even kissed yet - it’s all touches, forehead kisses, nuzzling, cuddling even while sleeping. Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu, now at the point where he can openly express how he feels without doubt. Kiyoomi frowns when Atsumu’s eyes fill, a sudden pang of uncertainty in his stomach.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, quiet and worried.

Atsumu shakes his head, and a drop slides off his cheek at the movement. He swallows. “I love you too, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi bites his lip, feeling relief surge through him in tsunami waves, and he understands when his own eyes fill at the counter statement. They look at each other, eyes filled, hands intertwined, souls melting into one another.

“There is this poem,” Kiyoomi starts, one tear dropping. Atsumu softly kisses it away.

_“Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake  
and dress them in warm clothes again,”_

He recites the whole poem slowly, looking into Atsumu’s eyes.

_“How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running  
until they forget that they are horses.   
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,   
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,   
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days   
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple   
to slice into pieces.   
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means   
we’re inconsolable.”_

Atsumu bites his lower lip. Kiyoomi smiles softly.

 _“Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._  
These, our bodies, possessed by light.   
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.”

He finishes quietly, looking into the compassionate golden light of Atsumu’s eyes, shining celestially with the gracious sunrise slowly awakening this part of the world.

“We’ll never get used to it,” Atsumu says, cupping Kiyoomi’s cheek warmly. Kiyoomi closes his eyes and lets himself melt against the softness.

“It reminded me of you… ever since you left. Of the light in your eyes. Of how love ruined me. But now you’re here… now it’s safe to say it out loud,” he breathes, leaning into the touch, pressing warm kisses onto Atsumu’s palm.

“It’s beautiful,” Atsumu says.

After a hesitant silence, Atsumu’s face lights up with a loving, tender smile. “I will roll up the carpets and dance with you.”

That sentence is exactly when Kiyoomi lets love _in._

His soul sighs softly.

✵

When Atsumu kisses him, it is no less than a religious experience.

Kiyoomi closes his eyes, trying to savor the soft lips on his, but his whole body is trembling, his soul overwhelmed by the beauty he’s witnessing as if he’s watching something so disastrously divine and he is merely a part of something so much bigger. He _feels,_ as Atsumu kisses him, soft hands on his neck like gently petting an injured magpie, afraid that he will panic and fly away. He feels lucky, honored, _blessed_ to be able to see this man in his naked, divine vulnerability; it chokes him up, burns his closed eyes, makes his hands tremble.

Kiyoomi kisses him back, the most delicate and fragile way he can, and feels Atsumu sigh into the kiss. He wants to bring his hands up, caress the beautiful man’s cheeks, neck, arms, but he feels so awestruck by the beauty that he just needs to take a second back and… not make sense out of it, because it is clearly impossible, but just take it in a little, to fathom the power and the ultimate form of divine light he can see in Atsumu’s eyes.

So he does. He pulls back a little, and Atsumu slowly opens his eyes, breathing a bit fast, like how the leaves shuffle on holy, old oaks when a hasty wind dances through them. They lock eyes, and when gold collides with black, Kiyoomi doesn’t even try to ignore an orchestra of violins in his head, angels weeping and murmuring _hallelujah_ in between their sorrowful sobs, his own perception skewed by the overwhelming reverent act of looking at the man he loves.

He feels his eyes filling again, and doesn’t notice he’s crying until Atsumu gently oversteps the golden fence between them to lean in and kiss another tear falling down Kiyoomi’s cheek. Kiyoomi bites his lip, brows furrowed, and when Atsumu starts kissing him all over his face he sobs silently; thankful, undeserving, hurt, healing. Atsumu kisses him on the forehead, above his right eye.

He kisses Kiyoomi on the temples, and murmurs. “Your thoughts.” He kisses him on his cheek. “Your smile.” Another soft, delicate kiss on the corner of Kiyoomi’s trembling lips. “Your words.” On his chin, on his jawline. “Your neck. Your blood. Your life.” Kiyoomi closes his eyes, tears streaming down, and feels Atsumu’s soft, warm kiss on his eyelids. “Your gaze.”

Then Atsumu kisses him on his nose. “Keep breathing, Kiyoomi. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I love you. Stay with me.”

Kiyoomi opens his eyes, lashes wet, nose red, and lips quivering. He looks at Atsumu, and Atsumu looks back at him with resoluteness, a calm and peaceful determination, and an adoration so clear that it makes Kiyoomi’s knees weak. He looks so beautiful like this. Honest, loving. So compassionate that Kiyoomi worries it will break him - he feels like those substances that react with infinite firmness when something hits them, but allow everything in when prodded gently, slowly. He feels like crumbling under Atsumu’s love and compassion, just like that, after all the hardness and durability he had to show. He feels like a puppet with cut strings, and when he looks at Atsumu’s eyes again, he surrenders completely to this feeling.

He surrenders, completely, to loving this man. He surrenders to opening his heart so wide that if he leaves, Kiyoomi knows he will shatter, but he doesn’t mind; he knows that for holding something so sacred and beautiful in his hands, it is only fair to feel hollow when it disappears. It would be an honor, to be brokenhearted after such divine love, because it would mean that Kiyoomi truly felt it, truly experienced it with every fiber of his being. So, Kiyoomi surrenders. He surrenders to love and vulnerability, and he surrenders to his clawing, crying need of trust. He surrenders to trusting Miya Atsumu with his heart, with his soul, with his love.

Now, Kiyoomi understands why Atsumu had cried that night, on the bed, when Kiyoomi kissed him.

Their contact is unlike anything Kiyoomi has ever experienced; soft, comforting, although heavy with meaning. When Atsumu leans in once more to kiss him softly, softer than Kiyoomi has ever been touched, looked at or thought of, Kiyoomi cries silently while kissing him back. He raises his hands and caresses Atsumu’s cheeks to find them wet as well, but doesn’t find it in himself to separate from him. He kisses Atsumu with all his newfound faith, tenderness and yearning. He leans into him, needing to be touching him as possible, and Atsumu replies with a light groan and pulls Kiyoomi onto his lap. Heat stirs inside Kiyoomi’s stomach, and he pulls back for a breath, straddling Atsumu, arms around the neck he will worship with soft and wet kisses in just a second.

“I love you, Atsumu.” Kiyoomi mutters, holding Atsumu by his cheeks, staring into the golden eyes. _I have changed with this feeling._ “You have my soul marked.”

It’s a quiet statement, exhaled like a prayer, like begging the gods to forgive them; it’s muttered so softly, like asking the universe to look after his loved ones after his departure. But they’re here, now, together.

“I couldn’t have asked for more than you,” Kiyoomi whispers, a plea.

Atsumu just looks at him, unable to speak, eyes filled to the brim, and Kiyoomi knows he understands. So he closes his eyes, and whispers. “Amen.”

And then he leans in to kiss his man, who’s accepted every part of him with each dark corner and fault, once more. Atsumu holds him, gentle but firm at the same time, and kisses him back with lust and devotion.

It is unlike anything Kiyoomi has ever seen, or even heard about.

It is reverent, achingly so, when Atsumu carries him so gently to their bedroom, when Kiyoomi kisses him with tears still in his eyes. It is gentle, loving, heavy within time when Atsumu kisses his body all over, rustling his love and devotion into different curves of Kiyoomi’s skin, as if begging his body to remember this even if Kiyoomi’s mind moves past it. Atsumu holds his hands, and presses a kiss on each knuckle as Kiyoomi watches with a dazed gaze, and then Atsumu brings his two hands together and leans his forehead onto them.

Kiyoomi hears a whispered _“amen.”_

It is lustful but tender when Atsumu enters him, it is passionate and lively when Kiyoomi moans, it is heartbreakingly beautiful when Atsumu moves so slowly and cannot stop kissing Kiyoomi all the way through it. It is aching when they both come, and Kiyoomi cannot stop crying, taking shelter in the safe hollow above Atsumu’s collarbone, inhaling his scent deep and pressing his forehead against Atsumu’s pulsing neck. Atsumu hugs him, whispers sweet nothings into his ear and Kiyoomi lets himself melt into warmth of the man holding him, holding him back from falling, breaking, hurting.

He cries, both heartbroken and thankful, praying to everything in the universe to not take this man from him. It is different from when he first cried with Atsumu; then, he was afraid Atsumu would leave and take the feeling with him. Now, he knows how it feels when Atsumu is gone; but the difference this time is that… Kiyoomi understands that life is a fleeting thing. It is featherlike, lively, and it cannot be trapped in a jar to stare at for long times, not even a minute. So, as scary as it is to know that this will end someday, that this will be another memory in the bustling library of humankind, Kiyoomi is determined to live it thoroughly. He will not wake up one morning and regretfully swallow the bitter taste, reminding him of the things he missed just because he didn’t want to feel broken afterwards.

It’s again as if even the hurting itself is worth cherishing and reliving the memory. As if – if he forgets, if he lets what happened slip between the fingers of his memory like sand, as if he does not walk this earth withholding the memories he has - he will betray everything that made him feel alive. And so, Kiyoomi makes a choice.

He chooses to love, to get hurt, to remember. To be scarred, marked and changed by his memories, to be a walking sketchbook, each page colored and inked in different scribbled words.

He chooses to open his heart to whatever may come. He chooses to love despite the fears.

He chooses Atsumu.

✵

When they wake up again, Kiyoomi is nuzzling Atsumu’s neck from behind, inhaling the orange and bergamot, and he bends his arm under Atsumu’s neck to pet his hair. Atsumu sighs in his sleep, and Kiyoomi lovingly presses kisses on his bare shoulders, trailing over the scratch marks, and moves to kiss his neck. Atsumu’s eyes flutter open, and they lock gazes in the mirror. Atsumu smiles sheepishly, and shuts his eyes again. Kiyoomi feels the adoration inside rise impossibly.

Atsumu finally turns to hug Kiyoomi properly, and Kiyoomi climbs on top of him to get closer, limbs entangled everywhere possible, hands caressing exposed skin. He kisses Atsumu’s collarbone, his sternum, his chest, and presses a kiss onto his heart before speaking.

“Do you want breakfast?”

Atsumu opens his eyes again with a lopsided smile. “Ya gonna make me some?”

“I might consider.”

“Eggs and rice,” Atsumu mumbles, pulling Kiyoomi back into the embrace.

“I need you to let me go to do that,” Kiyoomi murmurs into the pillow.

Atsumu groans. “Yer tellin’ me there’s no way you can both love me and cook for me?”

Kiyoomi hums approvingly.

“What a shame. I did that forya for _weeks_ when yer hand was injured,” Atsumu says through a grin.

“Atsumu!” Kiyoomi objects, and Atsumu laughs, letting Kiyoomi go.

Kiyoomi presses another kiss on Atsumu’s chest, smiles at his teasing smirk, and walks to the kitchen. He turns the corner to find out the most pleasant surprise. He inhales the fragrant air through his nose, and calls to the bedroom.

“Atsumu, you need to see this!”

He hears a groan, and then shuffled footsteps approach him. Atsumu enters the kitchen, walking towards Kiyoomi. “What’s the smell?”

“Look,” Kiyoomi points at the lilies in front of the window, blooming with exquisite pearly petals like snowy silk, filling the kitchen with their fragrance. An expression of surprise and delight appears on Atsumu’s face, matching Kiyoomi’s happy smile, and he walks towards to smell them closer, dragging Kiyoomi by his hand.

“They’re so pretty,” Atsumu says in awe. He traces the outline of one petal, shuffling the flower, and some of the pollen falls from the crowns to the white silky leaves. The lilies have bloomed with three flowers from each stem, and it looks like spring is inside their kitchen in one small pot, littered with gorgeous white blossoms and bright green, thin leaves. Kiyoomi looks at how beautifully, quietly, startlingly they appeared, on the day he surrendered;

_the earth laughs in flowers;_

and he smiles, knowing he will not forget how they gracefully blossomed into the cold morning, nor their violent, inevitable, silencing beauty. Every petal has the texture of sturdy silk, every flower trying to be one with the sky; as if their milk-white purity is a temporary but exquisite reminder from mother earth, of her divinity, and their relief in inhaling the soft spring air prickles Kiyoomi into thinking, _how would I look if I had blossomed into the weather I belonged?_

He kisses Atsumu in front of the lilies.

✵

They take their first steps with rediscovering communication. Then, they move to rediscovering trust.

It’s a process; Kiyoomi knows it will be, but it is not as frustrating or terrifying as he thought. He learns to lean on the fact that he will find Atsumu next to him when he wakes up. He learns to allow himself to get clingy, to expect his morning kisses from his lover, to groan if he isn’t hugged and loved enough before leaving the bed. He learns to be vulnerable with his needs. And he learns that Atsumu’s eyes sparkle softly whenever Kiyoomi reveals another rib of his, another soft spot where Atsumu could easily hurt him if he wanted to. He always, always kisses those spots. He kisses Kiyoomi’s hands, his palms, his wrists. He whispers words down the gentle lines of Kiyoomi’s waist, or on the back of his thighs where Atsumu loves to kiss him. He kisses Kiyoomi’s back, fingers dipping in and rising across the built muscles and the strong spine. He kisses Kiyoomi’s temples, each time reminding him that he loves his thoughts.

Kiyoomi learns to take them into his routine. He learns that he actually wants to allow himself to get used to this, to let this ruin him. So he does.

He also learns how to tell when Atsumu gets antsy. He learns that when Atsumu asks questions about their relationship early in the morning, it’s usually an indicator of an overthinking, sleepless night; or when Atsumu’s fingertips do not draw random patterns on Kiyoomi’s skin while they watch something, it means he is thinking about something he’s going to talk about later. He learns Atsumu’s favourite smells are sandalwood and peaches, so they have a bowl of peaches next to Esther in the kitchen, and Kiyoomi once in a while will light up a sandalwood incense stick to let it bless the house. Then, he lets oranges back in. He experiments with cooking, and ends up baking so many batches of brownies with Atsumu that they end up distributing it to their neighbors. His next-door neighbor, Usui-san, thanks them politely and smiles. Atsumu smiles back apologetically.

Their brownie routine settles in at once; Atsumu instructs him, Kiyoomi mixes everything together, and they put the pyrex into the oven. Then Atsumu rolls up the carpet and extends his hand, and they slow dance to jazz. Kiyoomi’s favourite of the classics he’s grown accustomed to is _Cheek to Cheek,_ and as soon as Atsumu notices his smile when the song plays, it becomes their default first song into the routine. They dance without any specific steps or rules; it becomes something liberating with Kiyoomi swirling Atsumu around the kitchen, silent apologies turning into giggles when they step onto each other’s bare toes on the marble floor, and Atsumu kissing him everywhere he can reach.

They dance either until the timer dings, notifying them that the batch of brownies is done, or until the point when their kisses and dancing turn into something more aflame with passion. When the latter happens, Atsumu often ends up sitting on Kiyoomi’s lap on the corner sofa, kissing him like there’s no tomorrow until they secure the brownies and can actually proceed to the bedroom.

The intensity of feeling like this is where he was meant to end up all along swirls in Kiyoomi’s chest. He sighs in relief each time Atsumu whispers another “I love you”. The words are more than a statement; they are more of an offering for eternity, a plea for healing, an appeal for connection.

✵

Kiyoomi is reading on the sofa in the kitchen when Atsumu walks in.

It’s been a month since the lilies bloomed; it’s been two weeks since Kiyoomi asked Atsumu to live with him, and it’s been an hour since they last kissed. Atsumu sits next to him, a mischievous grin on his face, and starts playing with Kiyoomi’s hair.

“Omi?”

“Hmm?” Kiyoomi responds, eyes on the words.

“Do ya feel ready?”

“For what?”

“To meet Ma.”

Kiyoomi raises his gaze from the book, looking at the counter across him in shock, then turns his head to look at Atsumu. “What?”

“She invited us over to Hyogo,” he explains with the grin still on his face. “Says she missed her sons.”

“Oh,” is all Kiyoomi can say.

“All four of them, she stressed.”

Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu with his mouth open. Atsumu fails to hold it back, and laughs with excitement, leaning in to press a kiss on Kiyoomi’s cheek. Kiyoomi’s expression is still shocked and confused when he pulls back, and Atsumu throws his head back in laughter.

“C’mon, why’reya so surprised?”

“You… I will… I am invited? By your _mother?”_

“Didja forget Japanese in a second?” Atsumu teases, one hand snaking its way around Kiyoomi’s shoulders. “Yes. She said she hasta meetcha after all the talk about ya from me and Samu. I hope she took my words more seriously than she did Samu’s, though.”

Kiyoomi momentarily remembers the inhumanely stressful and threatening lunch with Osamu they had three weeks ago, to update him on how they will proceed with their relationship. Which was a passable excuse, but the real reason was that Osamu’s shovel talk had apparently been not enough for him, and he needed to see Kiyoomi face to face to measure him up personally. Kiyoomi could accept that. He, in truth, is over that fact, but the thought of staying in a foreign house with Atsumu’s mother, his brother who is waiting for one slip-up from Kiyoomi, his boyfriend and Atsumu himself sounds…

“I’d love to,” Kiyoomi says, finally collecting the words and smiling at Atsumu. Atsumu’s grin widens.

“She’s gonna love ya,” he says before leaning in to kiss Kiyoomi on the forehead.

“So, when?”

“Next week.”

✵

The first thing Kiyoomi notices when he steps out of the car is that the house is beautiful. It looks warm, a two-story wooden home with pots of numerous flowers on windowsills, a lot of windows and a balcony that oversees the road. The door swings open, and Miya Rei appears; she has a big, welcoming smile that radiates warmth and relief, despite the physical distance. Her hair is dark brown, collected in a bun, and she waves with excitement. Kiyoomi sees her short, plump figure approach them as Atsumu takes two duffel bags from the trunk, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands or any of his limbs, really.

“Atsumu!” his mother calls, and Atsumu puts the bags down to hug her. She kisses his forehead, and pulls back only to bicker. “Haveya been eatin’ right? Ya lookin’ after yerself proper?”

“Yes, Ma,” Atsumu replies, huffing out a laugh, and turns to Kiyoomi with a blinding smile. “Ma, this is Omi-kun.”

“Ah, Kiyoomi!” Mama Miya turns to Kiyoomi, his first name so easy on her lips, and she unexpectedly pulls him into a very similar hug. “Welcome, welcome! Yer as gorgeous as my boy told me ya were,” she adds when she pulls back, leaving Kiyoomi in a mist of a flowery perfume. She holds him from the shoulders and looks at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes that Kiyoomi knows very well. He feels his lips curling upwards, unseen beneath the mask.

“Thank you for having me, Okaasan,” Kiyoomi replies, but Mama Miya waves a dismissive hand in between them.

“Call me Rei! No honorifics, that’s what Rintarou calls me. Or Ma, whichever is to yer likin’!”

“Okay… Rei,” Kiyoomi replies hesitantly, and Rei smiles at him with joy. The Miya family clearly has something with honorifics, but Kiyoomi lets the thought go with amusement.

“C’mon in, now,” she guides them. Atsumu’s lips curl fondly, looking at his mother walking towards the house.

“I bought her this house with the first sponsorship I got,” Atsumu says as they walk to the house, slightly proud, mostly soft and loving. “She was in tears, and made us decorate our rooms the same way we had them in our high school years so that she could walk and sit there when she missed us.”

Kiyoomi tilts his head. “That is adorable.”

They take off their shoes in the genkan as Rei calls from inside. “When’s Osamu and Rintarou comin’?”

“I think they’ll be here in half an hour, Ma,” Atsumu calls back. “I’ll show Omi our room.”

They walk up the stairs after Kiyoomi discards his mask, Atsumu guiding them. He opens a door, and stands aside for Kiyoomi to walk in. “My kingdom.”

Kiyoomi steps inside, and looks around the room painted in light brown. There is so much going on, on the walls - photoshoots of Atsumu ripped from magazines, photos of him with his teammates, with Osamu, with Suna, with his mother, a post-it note reminding him to have a good meal and rest, handwritten notes here and there. There is a volleyball at the corner of the room, looking slightly deflated. The wooden desk in front of the open window is mostly empty aside from the framed photos on it, and Kiyoomi sees toddler Miya twins gripping their mother’s long skirt from each side with matching goofy smiles. Next to that he sees Suna and the twins in their uniforms holding their high school diplomas, wild smiles on their faces with Atsumu’s fist is pumped high in the air.

The room shows him the side of Atsumu that he wouldn’t be able to imagine if they weren’t dating. He knows Atsumu is sensitive and full of emotions beneath the teasing attitude and the mischief, but it’s hard to see for others. Kiyoomi wonders for a second about the people who only think of Atsumu as a foxy, ridiculously loud and demanding teammate or friend, and not much more.

He’s thankful he’s not one of them. Not anymore.

He turns to Atsumu with a soft smile on his lips. Atsumu smiles back at him from where he’s sitting on the double bed.

✵

It turns out that Rei did not prepare anything beforehand for their dinner, and for good reason. She winks at Kiyoomi. “I didn’t raise my boys to be useless.”

Osamu cooks, and Atsumu bakes.

Kiyoomi and Suna are finished.

Suna seems to be acquainted with the fact; Kiyoomi, instead, watches in shock as the twins work systematically in the kitchen as if it’s their second nature. They tease each other, pass each other ingredients before the other even has to ask, taste the things for each other and offer criticism.

In the meantime, Suna, Kiyoomi and Rei are sitting around the wooden kitchen table. Kiyoomi _so badly_ wants a cigarette, and while he thinks of smoking in the back yard without anyone noticing, Rei extracts a pack and offers him one with that twing again in her eyes.

“Atsumu mentioned ya smoked occasionally,” she says amusedly. “I’ll be takin’ one too. Special day.”

Kiyoomi looks at the grey eyes offering him comfort, and finds himself smiling. He retrieves a cigarette. “Thank you.”

“Rintarou?” Rei asks, but Suna shakes his head with a smile. “I care about my health Rei, unlike some others.”

Atsumu scoffs at that before Kiyoomi can roll his eyes. “Why dontcha ask yer liver if that’s the case?”

“Oi!” Osamu bats him in the head. “Leave my boyfriend alone. Yers is here too, take care of’im instead.”

Rei just laughs, lighting Kiyoomi’s cigarette, then proceeds to light hers up as well. She drags in, and lets out a puff of smoke with a smile. Kiyoomi tentatively does the same.

Rei, surprisedly, does not ask Kiyoomi about his parents, his family or his past. Kiyoomi doubts Atsumu has warned her about this beforehand, but doesn’t ask. He silently smokes as Suna and Rei chat with enthusiasm about the next season, and notices that he’s zoned out only when Rei utters his name.

“Hm?” he says, attention snapping back in an instant.

“I’ve heard a lot aboutcha,” Rei says with a smile, and Kiyoomi is surprised about how easily she soothes his nerves with one expression. “But tell me. Why’dya choose Atsumu?”

“Ma,” Atsumu whines with his back turned to them, stirring something.

“Hush,” Rei replies with a fake frown, and she returns to her graceful and warm smile when she looks at Kiyoomi.

Uh, fuck.

Kiyoomi can certainly explain why he loves Atsumu to the man himself, but explaining that to his mother is something entirely different. He doesn’t know how to deal with parents, and he cannot understand the level of closeness between the Miyas, so in his confusion and panic he decides on something simple.

“He has a beautiful heart.”

Atsumu freezes in the middle of his whisking motions while Sunarin makes an adoring little “awww” sound. Rei tilts her head, intently waiting for more.

“I feel free and safe with him,” Kiyoomi says quietly, maybe hoping for Atsumu to not hear it, which is physically impossible. He meets Rei’s eyes, aware that she’s seeing right through him, and lets the warmth linger in his expression.

He hears Atsumu sniffing. Osamu apparently hears it as well.

“If yer plannin’ to stay in this relationship, ya gotta get a grip on yerself,” he says. “Yer too soft.”

“Shut up, Samu,” Atsumu replies, their backs still turned to the rest of the family. “It’s the onions.”

“I chopped the onions half’n hour ago, ya dimwit,” Osamu replies lightheartedly.

_“Samu.”_

Osamu laughs at that, and Kiyoomi feels his lips curling. Rei places one soft hand onto Kiyoomi’s on the table, and smiles at him. “Welcome to the family, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi looks back at her warm, grey eyes, and smiles sincerely.

✵

Kiyoomi shifts in his chair to reach for his drink.

They are at their first team dinner of the new season, first week of September. Coach Foster will not let go of his concept of team unity, and Kiyoomi will endure it as long as it’s not putting all of them together into one house; a joint dinner once a month isn’t unbearable. Everybody’s cheerfully chatting, Bokuto telling everyone a story of how he and Akaashi toured Europe this summer and how Akaashi’s unexpectedly good English saved them on many occasions. Atsumu, in the meanwhile, is holding his hand under the table as he knows Kiyoomi is not comfortable with public displays of affection, and he puts some umeboshi onto Kiyoomi’s plate while nodding enthusiastically at a statement Bokuto just made.

Kiyoomi’s lips softly curl into a smile.

“Hey hey hey!!” Bokuto exclaims, pointing one finger at Kiyoomi. “Are you thinking about Tsum-tsum?”

Before Kiyoomi can open his mouth, Inunaki laughs loudly. “Of course he is! I don’t think we’ve ever seen him smile about anyone else.”

The table laughs at that, Hinata looking at them with warmth in his eyes while leaning on Bokuto in his laughter, and Bokuto throws one arm around his shoulder. “Why didn’t you guys tell us sooner?!”

“Well, for one thing,” Hinata says, suddenly serious. “I knew that first morning of training after the Adler’s match that they had sex, their happiness was obvious!”

Kiyoomi smirks and calmly says, “Actually, we had sex multiple times before that.”

Hinata turns crimson at that, covering his face with his hands as Bokuto roars with laughter just like the rest of the team. Kiyoomi sees with the corner of his eye that Tomas and Barnes are bickering about something. Tomas leans forward, finally.

“So, exactly when did you guys hook up?”

Atsumu laughs, despite his previous silence. “Whydja ask?”

“Not like there’s been a bet going on, right?” Inunaki laughs with no remorse. Kiyoomi turns to Tomas with a raised brow, looking at the man trying to keep his face straight despite the blushing.

“There is 30,000 Yen at stake,” he says finally, leaning back. 

“What?!” Atsumu says with disbelief. “Since when?”

“Actually, Hinata started it,” Barnes replies calmly, absolutely unaffected by the laughter around them. “He put in ten thousand. We couldn’t let him have it all.”

“Oh my god,” Atsumu mutters into his palm. He turns to Kiyoomi with sparkling eyes, then. “So, Omi. When?”

“Is the bet about when we first hooked up or when we started dating?” Kiyoomi asks to be clear, amusement clear in his voice.

“Uh,” says Tomas, very coherent and meaningful.

“First hook up!” Hinata provides helpfully.

“October,” Kiyoomi replies calmly.

There are multiple gasps, and then groans from the side where Tomas and Barnes are sitting. Bokuto snickers and Hinata smiles deviously. Inunaki laughs loudly, his drink swirling in the glass he’s trying to hold straight.

“So, who won?” Atsumu asks, curious.

“I think… Bokuto,” Tomas replies. “He’s the closest.”

“What was his guess?” Kiyoomi asks.

“The first week you joined the team,” Bokuto grins.

Atsumu chokes on his drink, and bends over in fits of coughing. Kiyoomi fails to hold himself back and laughs. “That early?”

Bokuto shrugs, his grin still on his face. “You two clearly had something for each other. Not my fault everybody else took forever to get it.”

There is a rustling of money, and Barnes forwards a thick wad of cash, the sum of his and Tomas’s debt. Hinata groans, reaching for his own wallet. Inunaki extends a significantly less amount of money, and he winks at Atsumu. “Didn’t get head over heels like these guys, but I had to.”

Atsumu chuckles. Bokuto holds the money in his hand, and waits for a second until he excitedly announces, “One tour of drinks for everyone!”

Between the cheering and the excited applause from Hinata and Inunaki, Atsumu leans sideways, and whispers quietly into Kiyoomi’s ear. “I love you.”

✵

It happens on a completely unexpected day. Kiyoomi doesn’t know how, but he realizes that he did not see it coming in any way.

He is just back from shopping, only to go out once more. He calls towards the living room. “Atsumu, did you see my wallet?”

“Ah, why?” Atsumu calls back, and appears at the genkan after a few seconds. His hair is a mess, he’s wearing sweatpants and there are fresh lovebites on his chest. Kiyoomi loves coming home to this.

“I left mine at home, thinking the cash in my jacket would be enough, but it wasn’t,” Kiyoomi explains, looking around the genkan for his wallet.

“Oh, what didn’tcha get?”

“I only got your pudding and the rice you like,” Kiyoomi says. He feels Atsumu freeze on the spot, and turns to him with a questioning gaze.

“Ya went to the market because ya were craving and out of _cigarettes,”_ Atsumu states in disbelief. “Ya bought my stuff instead?”

Kiyoomi shrugs, suddenly nervous under the intense stare. Atsumu’s expression shifts from disbelief to something inscrutable, then he tilts his head. “I gotcha. Wait here a sec.”

Kiyoomi waits nervously, suddenly unable to tell what Atsumu’s feeling. It’s a foreign sensation; since after almost one year of living together, he is able to read him almost all the time. He shifts on his feet, and hears Atsumu walk towards him.

Atsumu’s hands are in his pocket, and he looks at Kiyoomi’s questioning expression with an utterly blank face. Kiyoomi’s stomach twists and he feels the nervous nausea rising inside him.

“Kiyoomi, ya know that nothin’ lasts forever, right?” Atsumu asks quietly. Kiyoomi takes a step back in fear of what is about to come, and takes a deep inhale to calm himself down. They’ve been living together for a year. This is not what he’s thinking it is. It cannot be.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, his voice tense and at the edge of breaking. “Is this about the pudding? I got the right one-”

“Nothin’ lasts forever,” Atsumu repeats, coming one step closer. Kiyoomi takes a sharp breath. It’s been so long since he last thought about them ending. It cannot be happening like this. What did he do wrong? What is it?

Then Atsumu comes down onto one knee, and flips open the box he retrieved from his pocket.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi, will ya be my nothing?”

Kiyoomi gasps, holding the cupboard handle to ground himself, and feels the tears welling up in his eyes and streaming down in an instant at the horror, the relief, the sudden overwhelming of _everything_ happening at once. He doesn’t know which feeling to choose and live fully, but after a few seconds, he manages to compute that the love of his life is proposing to him. He stares at Atsumu, trying to calm down his crying, and his words are cut with sobs. “You idiot, Atsumu, yes, _yes-”_

Atsumu smiles and his shoulders relax with relief, and he takes the ring out of the box, sliding it onto Kiyoomi’s finger with ease. Kiyoomi looks at the emerald cut sapphire, reflecting light blue light, and looks back at Atsumu. He wipes away his tears, and shakily reaches into the pocket of his jacket.

“Will you?” he asks, opening the burgundy velvet box with trembling fingers, presenting him a similar ring in citrine.

Atsumu looks at him, gaping, and stutters. “Ya- ya were- ya gonna- ya carried this around?”

Kiyoomi nods with filled eyes, biting his lip in excitement. It definitely has not been the right, romantic moment he has been waiting for, but when he actually thinks about it… why was he waiting in the first place?

“Yes,” Atsumu croaks, and Kiyoomi puts the ring on with shaking hands. They look at each other, completely disheveled; Kiyoomi is still wearing his coat and shoes, and Atsumu is still half naked and newly awakened. Atsumu blinks away the tears, and pulls Kiyoomi into an intense kiss.

The cupboards rattle when Atsumu pushes Kiyoomi onto them, and their tongues explore each other until Kiyoomi has to pull back to breathe. “Atsumu, I need to get cigarettes.”

Atsumu grins. “I’ll get them forya.”

He presses one more soft kiss onto Kiyoomi’s lips. Kiyoomi hums, and frowns when the contact ends up being too short. Atsumu giggles at him. “I’ll kissya more when I get back. I dunno where yer wallet is, either.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, though a loving smile curls at the corners of his lips. “Come back quickly.”

Atsumu nods, walking inside to find something to wear, and Kiyoomi yells from the genkan. “Don’t pull stunts on me like that, I almost had a heart attack!”

The only response he gets is a hearty laugh.

✵

Ferns, their hands reaching for the sky, asking for the light to rain down on them, are the ultimate healers. Their roots are surely security, but they do not let that distract them from their eventual, unachievable aim; to root deeper to the boiling center of the world, to reach higher to the blinding heat of the sun, and to keep the world alive in between. They strike a balance, the secret of it unknown to any other creature, and all oblivious ears can hear is the rustling of blades.

✵

Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi’s side profile, focused on the movie on the screen, his right arm over Kiyoomi’s shoulder. Kiyoomi is holding Atsumu’s free hand in between his palms on his lap.

He thinks quietly that he has spent a long time watching these hands. His first impression was that the curve of these fingers directing the ball under ruthless control could ruin someone. The next thing he learned was that he wanted those hands to ruin him. He was so oblivious to how applicable his desire was, to all aspects, so the last thing he learned was that Kiyoomi’s hands were capable of destroying him and building him back up in every possible way.

He knows how they look when they’re nimbly carding through dark curls in the shower, he knows how the ghostly fingertips feel when they dance lightly on his back in the mornings. He knows that when Kiyoomi lays his hands on Atsumu’s skin, it’s a blessing; when Kiyoomi lends him a hand, it’s friendship; when Atsumu claims he knows Kiyoomi like the palm of his own hand, it’s truth: Atsumu doesn’t remember paying attention to his own hands after he met this beautiful man, and with every moment Kiyoomi opens himself more to him, Atsumu feels like he’s exploring his own palms all over again, either for prayer or for holding him.

He looks at where they’re connected, two palms warming up Atsumu's skin. The soft glint of the rose gold ring catches his eye, the light blue sapphire reflecting light as if it’s alive. He raises Kiyoomi’s hand to press a soft kiss onto the back of it.

He needs to study these hands for longer - in fact, for as long as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is it. Hand Study is done.
> 
> Oikawa having his tea with “golden oat flakes or some shit” is a Conquering the Great King reference. I think about that fic daily despite reading it three years ago, and I cannot just refuse to pay my respects. 
> 
> So a funny thing happened. I contacted someone who left a wonderful comment on this work, and we ended up being friends (fiancées?? wives????) in the blink of an eye. And she pushed me through all the hard parts, all the "I can't do this"es and all the moments I was so distracted because What the Fuck, How Is Sakusa Kiyoomi So Sexy. Ladies, gentlemen, and everybody else, I present to you [Marie, my spring star.](https://twitter.com/_marssram)
> 
> This chapter is for her. 
> 
> She has a TikTok under the username "seijoh_simp" where she screams about the fics she loves, if you want to hear a gorgeous voice and see her breath-taking face do follow her. (Marie if you see this don't come screaming at me everybody must see your face once in their lifetime). She beta'ed the story from Chapter 4 onwards, and let her brain rot with my plot ideas. I am eternally grateful, and I love you baby.
> 
> Anyways, for the ones who might have noticed my slight obsession for plants and lilies, I have a lily tattoo on my rib. Lilies carry great meaning for me, [as Leonard Cohen explains so beautifully:](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/leonardcohen/recitation.html)
> 
> I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat, you see  
> I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet,  
> who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique,  
> with all he is, and all he was,  
> A thousand kisses deep.
> 
> About ferns…. You can say that I feel a lot about ferns, and again, plants in general. You would be right. I will, in fact, get a fern and wood tattoo, as soon as I save up the money for it (which doesn’t seem to be in the close future. sigh.) You can see the tattoo and its meaning for me [here,](https://twitter.com/mamabrainrot/status/1349380448619794435?s=20) if you want.
> 
> It is so hard for me to say goodbye to this story, but I feel like I’ve said all I needed to say. I felt a lot writing this chapter, and this story in general. It touched me so deeply that I can only watch silently and thank endlessly.
> 
> I hope it did the same for you. 
> 
> It is love, the holiest of everything we have, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, **skip this note** if you do not want to watch me get sentimental as fuck. It’s my first story, and I am _feeling a lot_ about this.
> 
> I need to start this with proper thanks. 
> 
> [Zoé](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silveriss/pseuds/Silveriss) told me I could do it, and held my hand throughout this fic, just the way she did since we’ve met. 
> 
> [Jenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticFriendly/pseuds/ChaoticFriendly) screamed at me in the comments with feeling, and her words always put a smile on my face while igniting my soul with her passion. 
> 
> [ Andie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireHeartAW/pseuds/FireHeartAW) checked on me multiple times at random hours, asking if I have been sleeping well and studying enough, and I haven’t yet told her I cried multiple times at her acts of kindness; she also beta’d this fic no matter the time. 
> 
> [Marie,](https://twitter.com/_marssram) who I met through her comment on this fic’s third chapter, has found her way so deep in my heart that I’m not sure if I will ever be the same, now that I’m touched by her existence. 
> 
> [Cassie,](https://twitter.com/karasuno9_10) my cosmic twin; I now know that I’m not alone, because a matching soul lives somewhere else in this world. Thank you for being with me.
> 
> [Mika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meeks00/pseuds/meeks00) has been my eternal inspiration for believing in myself and she reminded me repeatedly that the small things I hid in my writing did not go unnoticed. 
> 
> [Emily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emso/pseuds/emso) has been the reason for my falling into the SakuAtsu pit, the very person who wrote [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303949) that slapped me across the face. I haven’t been able to crawl back out since. 
> 
> Thank you [ Eskarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eskarina/pseuds/Eskarina) for recommending that fic. 
> 
> Thanks to [Cody,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/espercially/pseuds/espercially) [Adena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormydeen/pseuds/wormydeen) and [Ace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbykuroo/pseuds/enbykuroo) for looking over the plot and telling me that this was a good idea. 
> 
> Thank you, Nil, for finding me in the kitchen one ungodly morning and sitting down to listen to me about this plot idea I had before nothing else was known. She guided me through the rough outline, that morning, and that is why we’re here. 
> 
> Almost all these people are on different continents, but whenever I texted them they always responded no matter the time. It’s an understatement to say that I’m blessed, and I cannot thank each one of them enough. 
> 
> I cannot believe I wrote this story and had the courage to actually publish it, to lay my soul bare. And the response has been so overwhelmingly positive that it breaks me. And for that, for all the readers, I will be eternally grateful. 
> 
> I’ve befriended people so many souls who reached out to me over this piece of writing. I learned to think about the same storyline over and over again, learned to let go sometimes, and learned to feel the things I’ve been running away from. It has been a changing experience, and I’m so grateful that I cannot properly put it into words.
> 
> This fic also taught me that **commenting really matters.** I talked about that in length in [this tweet thread.](https://twitter.com/mamabrainrot/status/1351529614984835080?s=20)
> 
> I can talk forever because this fic means SO MUCH TO ME, but I’ll end this here. I only started writing fanfiction, with Hand Study, in late November 2020, but this was the beginning of a story that is long and beautiful. This story, the writing, the friendships, the comments changed me so deeply that I humbly thank you, again. Thanks to all people that gave me their cheerful compliments and all the constructive criticism. I’m trying to become a better writer, a better person, a brighter soul, and I dearly hope we see those times together.
> 
> Thank you!  
> 💜
> 
> Berfin
> 
> any comments or kudoses are so so so very appreciated! 
> 
> my links, if you want to reach me/support me/just look and go "huh":  
> if you want a copy of hand study as a book (for keepsake) [here!!](https://ko-fi.com/s/2d6ba0d377)  
> (no profit -- i just need you to cover the shipping.)
> 
> [my carrd](https://berf.carrd.co/)   
>  [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/berfin)   
>  [twitter](https://twitter.com/mamabrainrot)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Electrifying](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934253) by [YoungSoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoungSoon/pseuds/YoungSoon)




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